


The Precipice of Change

by Flora_Obsidian



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (for who..... you will find out), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Ensemble Cast, Multi, Multiple Inquisitors (Dragon Age), Slow Burn, Tal-Vashoth Culture and Customs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:02:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22165324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flora_Obsidian/pseuds/Flora_Obsidian
Summary: Attempting to stop the rippling chaos of the Mage-Templar conflict, Divine Justinia calls for a ceasefire and a meeting at the Temple of Sacred Ashes in the Frostback Mountains. Then, all hell breaks loose.Two attendees of the Conclave, a Vashoth sellsword and a Dalish spy, are thrust into the middle of a rapidly-unfolding war when they each awaken with a strange mark on their hands, magic neither of them had before, magic neither of them understand. With one another, and a somewhat ragtag group they pick up along the way, they must navigate a web of shifting alliances and strange magic, fighting enemies shrouded in mystery, and hope they can discover the cause of it all before it becomes too late.- - -A rewrite of Dragon Age: Inquisition, from beginning to end, feat. Inquisitors Adaar and Lavellan. Character tags, warnings, and relationships to be updated as the story progresses.
Relationships: Female Adaar & Male Lavellan (Dragon Age)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. The Wrath of Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, okay, okay. My roommate and I were talking, like, "Hey, what if our Inquisitors met? That would be kinda neat!"
> 
> It's been many thousands of words and a few months since then, but here we are. Inquisitors Herah Adaar and Mahanon Lavellan, Heralds of Andraste. Sam (@RavenArchress) and I have poured a lot of time and thought and love into this, and we hope you enjoy the ride as much as we have. This story is going to be loooooooong, spanning from the beginning of the game all the way to a hopefully unique interpretation of Trespasser, and drawing off our Origins and DA2 worldstates, so expect plenty of characters and cameos, as well as gradual canon divergence the further from the start we go.
> 
> Warnings for each chapter (not covered under Graphic Depictions of Violence, Canon-Typical Language, and Canon-Typical Violence) will be in the beginning, with details in the end notes, so you can click ahead if needed or not to avoid the spoilers.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!
> 
> \---
> 
> Warnings: none.
> 
> \---
> 
> Edited for grammar and formatting: 8/15/2020

Waking up, she didn’t know where she was.

Herah tried to think—weird light, and running—running from something. She’d been terrified. Chased. Something had been chasing her. But not—she hadn't been alone. The others? The Valo-Kas, Kasaad’s first proper job had been guarding the Conclave, had she seen him? Where?

Everything was muddled. Everything hurt—to move, breathe, try and remember. Her head ached, her hand felt like something was broken, her knees throbbed from bearing her weight.

When she shifted, she heard the rattling of chains, and her heart skipped a beat. 

_Shit. Shit fucking shit goddammit —_

Now she looked around, trying to quell the panic. Put Tal-Vashoth and Vashoth in the middle of a bunch of humans, _sure_ , who the fuck thought that was going to end well? Cell, dark. Chains on her wrists, a strong iron bar keeping them at a set width, chains on her ankles. Empty but for her. A hallway, no guards. Noise from outside. _Shit_.

Not the Qun, couldn't be them. Who...?

Too many people who would want to see these talks fail. Too many possibilities. 

“Hey,” said a voice. Herah resolutely did not flinch, but she was immediately on the alert. Still nobody in her cell, or in the hall, but across the way she could hear more chains rattling in the dark. A figure mostly in shadow appeared behind the bars in the cell in front of her, dark hair, some kind of facial tattoos. Dwarven? Too lithe, tall. Elven? 

“Hey, you’re awake,” said the figure. Lower timber. Male voice?

“...Do you know why we’re here?” she asked him.

“No clue.” He scooted forward even further, shifting on his knees until she heard the chains pulled taut. “I remember being at the Conclave, everyone meeting, talking. My clan sent me.”

“I’m a mercenary. We were hired to guard the place. I don’t remember shit, though.” 

Hesitantly, Herah moved to see the man better, though not so close anyone could reach through the bars and grab her; she could just make out the pointed tips of his ears, the symmetrical tattoos curled across his face. Though she was bound, she had no intention of giving her captors anything they wanted, not until she knew more about what was happening. But as she shifted, pain shot from her fingers up her arm, ricocheting in the joint of her shoulder, her jaw—pain beyond pain. The elf cried out as their cells both flashed with green light, _something_ flaring, crackling with an audible sound—light, emanating from their fingertips. 

Herah swore and scrambled backwards, breathing heavily through the pain, far as the chains would let her move before she was stopped. 

“What the _fuck —_”

Either the light or the noise caught someone’s attention; the doors at the end of the hall burst open, armored guards with emblems Herah didn’t recognize—a woman with a longsword strapped to her back, short hair, scarred face—another, purple and chain mail— _breathe_.

Chained up, no memory of what happened, no one she recognized. This might not be the Qun, but how humans treated their mages was why the Conclave had gathered to begin with, and this thing in her hand was _very clearly magical_ , and if she couldn’t control it, then—

The pair stayed in the hallway, outside of the cells. The woman in purple had her arms folded across her chest, expression a careful blank space, and her counterpart moved like an animal hunting prey—Herah was wary of that, people didn’t act like they would when they were furious, and this woman was. But calm could hide a lot of things.

Green crackled and flared across the walls, and now she could not withhold a flinch.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” said the woman with the sword—Herah didn’t even have a piece of sharp metal, her weapons gone, her armor. Those daggers had been gifts. She had a handful of letters kept in her pockets, but she couldn’t feel the press of the paper. “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead, _except for you_.”

The elf across the hall locked eyes with her. Herah felt her stomach drop. The entire Conclave. Everyone? Couldn't be. All the mages, the templars. The so-called important folks, the ones with clout.

The Divine? Her, too? 

“You think _we’re_ responsible?” the elf said in disbelief.

The woman in purple gave a pointed look to his hand, still chained, and Herah looked down at her bound wrists, the strange magic flickering over her palm.

“Explain _this_ ,” she demanded, and Herah did not have an answer.

“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t, I’m not-- ”

“ _W_ _hat do you mean you can’t_.”

“I’m no mage, I don’t know what this is!”

“Neither of us know what’s going on,” the elf begged, gaze flicking between them both. “I don’t know _what_ this is, or, or how it got there—”

“You are lying!” The woman strode forward, anger twisting her features, but the other grabbed her before she could make it to the doors of the cell. 

“We _need_ them, Cassandra.”

“Whatever you think we did, it wasn’t us. I don’t even know her!”

“All I remember is running from something,” Herah told them quickly. “I’m with a mercenary company that was hired to guard the proceedings, that’s all. The Valo-Kas. I don’t remember what I was running from, just that there was, was _something_.”

“And a woman.”

All three turned to look at the elf, who didn’t even seem to realize he had spoken out loud until he noticed their attention. He shrunk back a little. 

“There... there was a woman. Reaching out? It’s like a dream.”

The women in the hallway looked at each other in silent conversation, much said in a tilt of the head, a pointed glance. Herah was filled with a sudden relief that Shokrakar hadn’t been at the Conclave—that the Valo-Kas was a large enough group, not all of them had gone—she missed that kind of camaraderie already, their own codes, the little gestures.

And now, dozens of them were dead. The relief vanished as quick as it had come, and she only felt ill.

“Go to the forward camps, Leliana,” said the woman. _Cassandra_. “I will take these two to the rift.”

The elf shot her a panicked look. Herah looked back with equal alarm, but Cassandra just opened the doors to their cells, unlocking each of their chains and sending them ahead of her down the hall.

“...What happened?” the elf asked.

“Open the door and see,” Cassandra told them.

Herah squinted into the bright light—daytime, when it had been evening last—had it been evening? It was day, the sun nearly blinding off the snow.

“Din’an,” the elf whispered, coming to a stop. Herah followed his gaze up, and up, and—

“Motherfucking _shit_.”

* * *

Mahanon had most of his attention on the world around him, the flashes of light that could be the sun and bright glare of the snow, that could be the sky ripping itself open for demons to come pouring through. The daggers in his hands were serviceable, so he knew he would be able to defend himself, and Cassandra seemed to at least trust him not to stab her in the back.

The other part of his attention was focused on the woman who towered next to him, the Qunari. Her hand crackled and glowed with the same green light as his, though hers was the right and his was the left, and perhaps without thinking they had both fallen into step so their marked palms were next to one another. She was, maybe, a similar age to him, and four or five hands taller, metal caps at the end of her horns and a face that was heavily scarred, though he couldn't say from what. Gray-green skin, vibrant green eyes, hair in tightly braided rows. She moved with purpose, but in the same way that he did, careful and quiet and wary. She had reached for the daggers in the broken supply crates like he had, not for the staves or the swords or the bows and arrows. 

“Do you remember _anything_?” he asked her, even though the question had already been asked.

She glanced down at him a moment, shook her head. “Green, and running. We must have been near each other, if this—” And she held up her hand. “—is any indication, but I don’t even remember you.”

“I don’t remember you either, so, it’s no offense.” He looked away from her to scan the trees, but everything seemed safe. “Mahanon, of the Dalish.”

“...Adaar,” she answered, after only a slight pause. “Vashoth, of the Valo-Kas.”

“Is that a name or a title?”

“If you live under the Qun and follow its guidance, you’re Qunari.” She said this with a great certainty, statements of fact. “If you leave the Qun, they call you Tal-Vashoth. And if you’re born to Tal-Vashoth, and you’ve never known the Qun at all, you’re Vashoth. I never lived under the Qun, so I’m Vashoth. Adaar’s the name.”

“Thought Qunari was a race.”

“Like Dalish is a race?”

“...Fair point.”

He might have caught the slight curve of a smile, but it was gone underneath exhaustion and wariness in a heartbeat. 

“The Valo-Kas was my mercenary crew. We were hired as guards, as a third party. I… don’t know what happened to the rest of them.”

At least Mahanon knew he had come alone. His clan was still safe, in their camp, far away from here. 

“Qunari are hardy folk,” Cassandra called over her shoulder. “If any others could find their way out, it would not surprise me if it were them. But we have to keep moving quickly—less chatter!”

The deadpan stare Adaar leveled at her back nearly made Mahanon laugh aloud.

“Vashoth,” she said flatly, in a way that made him think she was often trying to push the distinction. “ _Vashoth_.”

Cassandra didn’t seem to hear her.

They fought through rips and tears in the sky, all the while, that strange glowing light above them. His hand throbbed with pain, crawling up his wrist, his arm. But despite the impediments, where Adaar faltered blocking hits toward the right, he took up that side to guard, and vice versa, and they fought in a curious tandem. 

It wasn’t like he was with his clan, no archers picking off creatures from the safety of hills and branches, no hills and branches to act as cover. Just snow and green and _things_. None of his friends and fellow hunters at his side, daggers at the ready. It was cold, and he hurt, and yet—they fought, and fought well enough together.

Cassandra held out a hand to help them up steep banks; they moved, following the curve of the frozen river towards the _rip_ in the sky. Air shouldn’t be able to bend that way, it... it wasn’t right. As they moved, he snagged up a few scarce elfroot plants he could find in the scrub, feeling the ache in his bones, and the stinging slashes where the demons had landed a lucky hit or two.

“This way,” she said, pointing to a pathway up, past where a landslide had sent earth and gravel tumbling down across the river, blocking the way. Adaar grunted, pushing up from the ground, one hand on her knee to brace herself. Mahanon followed them both. 

More of the creatures swarmed the plane at the top of the path, the stairs, all dark and shadows and claws ripping through the air. Two others were trying to keep them at bay, firing at range, and it was failing, slowly, slowly. A dwarf with some kind of crossbow, though none like Mahanon had ever seen, more familiar with bows and wood than the mechanics of shemlen weaponry—an elf, a little older than he was, fur-lined robes and a curved wooden staff, but no vallaslin across his face to mark him as one of the People. They fought quickly, with experience. The shades swarmed out of the sky, and where one fell two more rose up.

Cassandra raised her sword and charged. Mahanon looked to Adaar, and Adaar nodded, and they drew their blades. 

A team of five was better than a team of two; they beat the shades back, and further still, and further still, and as Mahanon spun to slash through the face of one trying to take a bite out of him—a hand closed around his wrist. 

“Hey, what the fuck—” Adaar was saying, suddenly in his peripheral, and the elf they had fought with pulled them both by the arm, pointing their hands towards the rift in the sky.

“Quickly,” he snapped, “before more come through!”

That was the last Mahanon heard before the world went sharp and green and sideways-upside-down- _wrong_. And it hurt. 

Gods, it hurt.

“—fucking _hell_ , warn a woman, next time—Andraste’s sanctified tits, what did you _do_?” Adaar was saying, holding her wrist to her chest. Mahanon blinked the spots out of his vision and wobbled on his feet. 

“I would... also like to know that,” he asked. Pain radiated up his arm, pulsing in his joints, the knuckles of each finger, the wrist, the elbow, the shoulder. 

“ _I_ did nothing,” said the elven mage. “The credit for that belongs to the both of you.”

“What, this thing?” Adaar looked at her hand, incredulous, and the green crackling around it, and back to the elf.

He nodded. “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand,” he explained. “I theorized that this mark of yours might be able to close the rifts that have opened in wake up the Breach—and it seems that I was correct.”

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself.” Cassandra looked at the pair of them, him and Adaar; Mahanon didn’t particularly like the way that she did. 

“Possibly,” said the elf. “It seems that the two of you hold the key to our salvation.”

“Great!”

The dwarf spoke up for the first time, reloading one of the bolts into his crossbow—blond, stubble, somehow not cold despite the snow on the ground and nothing but a jacket and unbuttoned vest against the chill. 

“Thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

“I like you.” Adaar pointed at him. He winked back.

“Varric Tethras,” he introduced, “rogue, storyteller, and occasional unwelcome tagalong.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. Mahanon looked between the four others, and then at the woods, the mountains, the sky. No other demons seemed to be nearby, but with the sky ripping open, gods only knew how quickly that could change.

“Hi,” said Adaar. “Yeah. You with the Chantry? Carta?”

Cassandra made another disgusted noise, somehow more pronounced than the first. The elf actually laughed. 

“Technically,” the dwarf said, with a tone far more chipper than Mahanon had been expecting, “I’m a prisoner, same as you.”

“Please,” Cassandra scoffed. “I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine. Clearly, that is no longer necessary.”

“Yet here I am! Lucky for you, considering recent events.”

The two bickered in a way that suggested they were old hands at it, little barbs meant to needle the other; Mahanon studied them curiously, then turned back to the elf and Adaar hearing her ask a question:

“So, do we have to fucking, dunno, hold hands to close those things?”

“You’re too tall,” Mahanon said dryly.

“Me? Tall? Never noticed.”

“Impressive.”

“Er,” said the elf, caught off-guard, “no, you... you don’t. And for what it is worth, I am pleased you both still live. My name is Solas.”

“What Chuckles means,” Varric said, interrupting himself to interrupt them, “is that he kept that thing from killing you both while you slept.”

 _While I slept?_ … _How long was I out for?_

By the look on Adaar’s face, she was thinking something similar.

“...What do you know about all this?” he asked of Solas. 

“And the fuck does he mean, kept it from _killing_ us?” Adaar tacked on.

“Solas is an apostate,” Cassandra informed the group, “who happens to be well-versed in such matters.”

“Technically,” Solas shot back, “all mages are now apostates, Cassandra. And to answer your question, it is that my travels have allowed me to learn far more about the Fade than any Circle mage could have. I came to offer whatever aid I can in dealing with the Breach—if it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin.”

Adaar still looked doubtful, wary—which, fair, so was Mahanon. But he looked up towards the sky, and the way the world rippled and ripped apart, jaw clenched against the pain radiating up his arm.

They really _didn’t_ have a choice, here.

* * *

The fight continued up the mountain. More rifts appeared in the sky, snow spewing into the air, _demons —_too many, fucking hell. The Qun could go fuck itself on a rusted longsword, and its saarebas collars could sink on every dreadnought into the Waking Sea, but, oh, demons were _terrifying_ , especially in numbers like this. 

She held her daggers as best she could, but the pain shooting up her right arm caused her fingers to spasm at odd intervals, and more than once she nearly dropped the weapon from her main hand. Thank fuck she was used to dual-wielding, she wasn’t _completely_ helpless, but it was throwing her off-guard, and she didn’t like that.

As they ran, Cassandra and Varric still found time to snipe back and forth, and Solas had comments about the rifts they passed by and sealed. Herah bit back the instinctual panic whenever she thought of _Vashoth_ and _magic_ put into the same sentence, and all the possible ways that could go wrong, and just kept pushing on to the forward camp.

“It doesn’t close when just one of us… points.” Mahanon spoke in hushed whispers next to her, trying to avoid drawing attention. The goal was to move, to survive, not to fan out across the mountain and destroy every rift there, nor was it to attract the attention of any demons they came across.

“Yeah, are you doing anything... dunno, specific? To close ‘em?”

“Just feels like someone’s trying to yank my arm out of its socket, is all.” His lips quirked in a humorless smile, gone in a heartbeat. “But they’re not closing when it’s just _one_ of us, it’s like—it shrinks, and freezes, but it doesn’t vanish.”

She looked down at the green vapor-like tendrils around her hand, visible even over the smooth leather gloves she wore. “Then we make sure we both fucking do what we’ve gotta do. And right now, we keep climbing.”

Fucking mountains. Fucking _stairs_. Her knees had never been too great to begin with, not after one too many quick escapes made by jumping off of something very high to the ground beneath. Running up a mountain—an entire mountain!—just seemed overkill. So did the sky falling apart, spitting out rocks and rifts and demons onto an unsuspecting world. 

But that was what was happening. And she had some strange magic as a part of her. Not being able to believe her eyes didn’t change the truth, and the demons kept pouring out from the Fade, and their small group kept fighting forwards.

“So…” Varric asked as they moved through the snow-covered woods, up and up and up. “ _Are_ you innocent?”

“I don’t remember anything,” Herah insisted, and Mahanon, to the left of the group, made a noise of agreement.

“Ah,” Varric said, “that’ll get you every time. Should’ve spun a story. More believable, and less likely to result in premature execution.”

Herah snorted—like she wasn’t used to threats of that, anyway. Many towns—most of them, in fact—didn’t take kindly to Vashoth and Tal-Vashoth moving through, especially in large numbers. 

But at long last, they made it to what Cassandra had been calling the forward camp, and Herah ignored the sinking feeling in her stomach like she had been ever since seeing the damned sky. How long had she been sleeping? Unconscious?

Why couldn’t she just fucking _remember?_

“—taken to Val Royeaux—”

“— _who_ do you think is in charge here, Chancellor—”

Cassandra led their group through the gates, directly towards an arguing pair without heed for the fact that they seemed to be arguing—blunt, direct, to the point. Herah could appreciate _that_ , if nothing else. But she really didn’t like the implications of 'someone' being taken to Val Royeaux given the circumstances at present.

“Ah, here they come,” said the man in Chantry robes— _fuck_ , she didn’t like the Chantry, didn’t like _any_ of this. Next to him, Leliana, the woman in purple from the cells, looked relieved for just a moment.

“You made it,” she exclaimed. “Good. Chancellor Roderick, this is-- ”

“I know who they are,” snapped the Chantry man. “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take these criminals to Val Royeaux for execution!”

“Order _me_?” Cassandra repeated, incredulous. “You are a glorified clerk!”

He wasn’t armored, the Chantry man. And the bridge they were on wasn’t too high up, and she could disappear into the woods without too much difficulty, and... what, and leave the other person caught up in this nonsense to fend for himself? And find herself either impaled on Cassandra’s longsword before she could make the leap, or one of Varric’s crossbow bolts embedded in her back as she was trying to run? 

“And you are a thug—but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!”

“We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, _as you well know —_”

“Hey, Adaar,” Mahanon whispered to her. “Do we, uh. Say something?”

“Fuck if I know,” Herah whispered back.

Varric muffled a snort from behind them.

Mahanon watched the argument a couple moments longer. Then he sighed, and straightened up a little, and pointedly cleared his throat. “What is being done about the Breach in the sky?”

“Oh, and wouldn’t you like to know! You killed everyone with it! But we waste time.” The Chantry man swallowed back his anger, turned away from her and Mahanon both, and looked to Cassandra. “Call a retreat, Seeker. Our position here is hopeless.”

“I do not believe that," Cassandra argued. "It is not too late to end this.”

Herah looked up at the sky until the vertigo became too much to bear, and then back down at her hands. People didn’t just... gain magic. 

And why couldn’t she _remember_?

She didn't like this. Didn't like any of this. Didn't think it mattered one bit, what she liked, or what she wanted.

“—do you think we should do?” Cassandra said, and it took a beat, two, to realize that she was talking to them, and that the assembled group was waiting for a response. 

Herah stared at her. Mahanon stared at her. Cassandra stared back.

“...You’re asking me what _I_ think, now? Thought I was just an ox-woman out here.”

“Mm, and I’m a heretic,” Mahanon agreed dryly.

“You have the Mark,” Solas said from behind them both, as Varric tried to muffle another snorted laugh with a coughing fit.

“And you are the one we must keep alive,” Cassandra continued, ignoring him completely. “What are your thoughts? The mountain pass, faster, with more unknowns? Or a direct assault with our men?"

Herah stared at her. Mahanon stared at her. Cassandra, waiting, stared back.

“Mountain pass?” she asked, though her knees were already protesting the idea of going up another _fucking_ mountain. “If it’s faster.”

“Mountain pass,” Mahanon nodded.

“Then we march,” Cassandra declared, and they continued moving.

* * *

They moved up the mountain, the cold of the snow and jagged rocks poking into the soles of his feet, but Mahanon was at least used to going barefoot in the wintertime. Adaar, fighting nearby him, would occasionally rub at her knees as they climbed, but gave no complaint.

They fought through rifts in the sky, green light and painpain _pain_ shooting up his arm from his fingertips. Adaar didn’t complain about that, either, just gritted her teeth. They found the scouts who had gone missing in the mountain pass. They moved steadily closer towards that gaping hole in the sky, and with every step Mahanon could only try to blink aside the dizziness he felt.

Everything about this was—not right. Very, very much not right. 

Through the mountain pass, they came down into the valley, and to the ruins that lay within.

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Solas said next to him. “Or, what’s left of it.”

“That is where you walked out of the Fade, and our soldiers found you.” Cassandra lacked the bite and anger she had been carrying—now she just sounded sad. “They say there was a woman behind you both as you left. No one knows who she was.”

He didn’t remember that. Or... no, there had been a woman, or a voice, or _something_. Someone? But he tried to think of the Fade and came up with nothing but a bone-deep sense of terror like when he looked at the sky above him, and he tried to think of what the voice had said to him, if anything at all, and there was only silence.

Mahanon swallowed back bile and panic and kept moving forward with the rest of their group.

There was no snow. The ground was warm underfoot, steam rising, the very earth and rock spiked up in shattered fragments and smooth as polished obsidian. Melted, hardened again in the space of an instant. The same green that flickered across his skin and bled across the sky was shot through the earth like vines, or roots, shimmering in a way that made his head ache when he tried to look too closely to it. There was rubble all across the ground, a handful of stones at the foundation, in some places, all that remained of walls that had stood for hundreds upon hundreds of years.

Despite where they were, Mahanon felt a pang at the loss of history.

Adaar’s face was stony as they walked past the corpses on the ground, burnt husks twisted into postures of agony, frozen in their last, terrible moments. No one spoke as they helped each other through the jagged and uneven paths and halls, deeper into the temple.

But at last, the sun now creeping at an angle past what remained of the stone walls, layered with the sickly green of the holes in the world, he stood next to Adaar in what used to be the heart of the temple and looked up, and up, and up.

“That’s high up there,” Varric said idly, like this was the sort of thing one saw every day. 

“Maybe if you stood on my shoulders…?” Adaar suggested, the high pitch in her voice betraying her nerves. Mahanon shot her a look, and got a helpless sort of shrug in answer. “Sorry. Not the time, I know. I deflect panic with jokes.”

He could get behind that.

“I think we’d need to find a third person to stack with us,” he answered, and she laughed a short and humorless laugh.

Leliana’s troops, with Leliana at the forefront, made it not long after, and coordinated with Cassandra, and the two of them stood before the rip in the sky. They stared.

“Do you think this is going to kill us?” Mahanon asked her.

Adaar looked at her hand. “Hurts like it’s going to. But. I’d rather not die. So. Hopefully not.”

“Yeah, I... yeah. Me too.”

“So, shall we?” 

“After you, my lady,” he responded, gesturing with a flourish. Adaar rolled her eyes; a little of the tension eased.

The archers were moving to their places. Cassandra rejoined them, and Varric and Solas, and they began to circle the perimeter, looking for a way down into the crater caused by the blast.

 _Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice_.

He startled. Adaar startled too,so he wasn’t hearing things, at least. The voice crawled at the back of his skull, like he knew it—but he couldn’t know it? But—

“What is this?” Cassandra snapped.

Solas frowned. “At a guess: the person who created the Breach.”

“He’s _here_?”

“No. The Fade is bleeding into this world.” He looked at the Breach with a heavy gaze. “This is an echo. Memories.”

The silence grew worse, after that, listening, and waiting for something else, and with every passing moment nothing happened. There was the crunch of rock underfoot, and the echo of called commands to the soldiers and arches across the crater, and a ringing in his ears.

There was red jutting out of the walls. Mahanon had seen nothing like it before, and he boxed it in with all the other insanity of the day, green on his hands and green pulsing through the rock and the sky. But he caught whispers behind him, Varric and Cassandra:

“That’s red lyrium, Seeker.”

“I see it, Varric.”

“But what’s it _doing_ here?”

“Magic could have drawn on the lyrium beneath the temple, corrupting it…” As Solas joined the conversation, too, Adaar took notice, glancing back over her shoulder. Varric noticed them both looking, and his expression went grim and serious.

“It’s evil. Whatever you do, don’t touch it.”

_Keep the sacrifice still._

_Maker, help me!_

He shuddered at the terror in the woman’s voice—the voice of the Divine, Cassandra said in horror not a moment later—the unfeeling, gravelly tone of the first voice. Uncaring. He glanced to Adaar, who nodded, and they picked up their pace.

_Help me!_

_What’s going on here?_

_Who are you?_

The closer they got to the Breach, the more his hand pulsed with pain. Adaar braced herself against the remains of a staircase, the light casting strange shadows on her face. He heard her voice echoing in his skull, and his own, slightly distorted, and the world itself seemed to go strangely double—two images layered one on top of the other, and a temple both there and not, whole and rubble. Shadowy figures, and voices.

_You must run! Warn them!_

“You were there!” Cassandra whirled to face Adaar, fire in her eyes. “You were _there_ , with the Divine! Who attacked? Is the vision true? What are we seeing here?”

Cradling her arm close to her chest, Adaar glared back. “I don’t remember!”

“Memories,” Solas repeated, interrupting. “Echoes of the Fade, bleeding into this place. It has already happened. The two of you, listen.” He looked at Mahanon first, meeting his eyes, and then to Adaar.

“This rift is not sealed,” he told them. “Right now, it is closed, albeit temporarily. With the mark, you should be able to open the rift, then seal it properly. Safely. That being said, opening it will likely draw attention from the other side. You must stand ready.”

“Is... _fuck._ Is opening it any different from closing it?” Adaar asked. Mahanon saw the mark on her hand flare up, and felt pain spike all the way from his fingertips to his elbow. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. “Because I don’t know how to do either.”

“Proximity and intent.” Solas reached one hand up in the air, as she and Mahanon had done at the rifts they’d passed by to get here. “You mean it to be open, and with the mark, it will be.”

“That’s really concerning,” she said tightly. “Cool. Fucking great. Let’s fight some demonic ass, I guess.”

And they did. There were demons and wisps and wraiths, and something large and monstrous and easily three times _Adaar’s_ height. His arm ached, and he struggled to breathe, and he was spattered with gore and his own blood where the creatures had gotten a few lucky hits in.

But there was also a lull in the battle, after most of the demons had fallen, and what few remained were the targets of the arrows raining like hail from the sky. Adaar appeared at his side, bleeding from a gash above her left eyebrow.

“Now?” she asked.

He didn’t waste time with words, just nodded, and the two of them reached out with hands intertwined towards the sky.

There was a bright, bright light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading, and comments and kudos are much appreciated.
> 
> Fic Tumblr: @inquisitwors-story  
> My Tumblr: @floraobsidian  
> Sam's Tumblr: @thedivinewhitetail


	2. The Threat Remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon and Herah awaken in Haven to find that circumstances have changed once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter than the last, with more in-game dialogue, but a lot of introspection from Adaar built around it. Things start picking up properly next chapter !!
> 
> Warnings: illness mention
> 
> \---
> 
> Edited for grammar and formatting 8/15/2020

Herah woke up in a place she didn’t recognize, and it took her several moments too long to regain her bearings.

There was pain in her hand, but pain like an old injury, the ache in her knees when the weather turned bad. Other than that—tired, _exhausted_ , something shaky in her bones, but... still alive. 

The Breach. The mark. Mahanon and the others.

She wet her lips with her tongue and set about levering herself into a sitting position. It took longer than it should have. Her limbs felt like jelly, and she was shaking, sweating, but _fuck_ it all. She might not be chained on her knees in a damp cell, but she didn’t know where she was, and around scared humans, that was never good.

There was snow outside, visible in the moonlight, so she was likely still in the Frostbacks. This was a proper house, sturdy wooden beams, pelts mounted on the walls, wooden shelves with knickknacks and a handful of books. Nobody else, though, just her. Empty glass bottles on the small table next to the bed she’d been laid out on—the potion type of bottle, not the alcoholic type. Fuck. She could _really_ use a drink.

She’d been bandaged up; she could smell the elfroot, and other herbs she didn’t recognize. Arvaarad would know, he was better than anyone she knew with magic and the healing arts—no. No, she couldn’t think about that, now. Not now.

From sitting, she tried to get to standing, and blacked out. Then she was sitting on the floor with Solas muttering curses under his breath—or maybe they were spells. Or, maybe, both.

 _Fucking ow_ , she thought. If he wasn’t swearing, she might as well.

“You nearly died yesterday and you think you can just stand up and walk around?” he asked her, holding up a potion. “Don’t answer that. Drink. At least your friend is more sensible, still unconscious and _resting_ , as he should be…”

She drank. It made the dizziness go away some.

“‘m fine, really,” she said. Her voice came out in a raspy kind of whisper, and it sounded like she’d been kicked in the throat. “Quick healer. Vashoth thing.”

“Yes, your Qun trains you to withstand far more than the average being, that does not mean you _should —_”

 _Fuck off,_ she thought, but her tongue didn't want to form the words. She kicked out at him instead, not nearly enough to knock him over, but it caught him off guard, and his expression was so taken aback as to be nearly comical, if she were in the mood for being amused. But she was so very tired, and still dizzy, and she didn't have patience for anyone who didn't know the difference between Qunari, and qunari, and neither. She spoke slowly, then, forcing out the phrase.

“Not Qunari. I couldn’t give a flying nug’s ass about the goddamn fuckin' _Qun_.”

There was a long silence between them. Then Solas nodded, remarkably polite given what just happened, and stood gracefully to his feet.

“My apologies,” he said, and best she could tell, he meant to sound sincere. Jury was still out on whether or not he _was_ , but he was trying. “I will remember the distinction next time. That being said, you should really do as Mahanon is still doing, and _sleep_.”

And evidently there had been more in the potion than she’d thought, because that was the last thing she remembered before waking up back in bed the next morning.

* * *

_< a series of notes taken by the apostate Solas and the apothecary Adan, tucked inside a desk drawer>_

_Vain hope: Someone better at this than me takes over before the survivors expire. Notes in case._

_Day One:_

_Clammy. Shallow breathing. Pulse over-fast. Not responsive. Pupils dilated. Their marks are thrumming with an unknown magic. Ties to the Fade. Should have killed them instantly, has not yet._

_Day Two:_

_Pulse normal, breathing normal. One still unresponsive; careful drop-feed of prep. elfroot extract to hasten his recovery. Qunari up and moving. Unsure how. Both thrashing in sleep. Mutters about too many eyes. Something about ‘the grey.’ Apparent memory loss._

_Addendum: not Qunari. Very, very, very much not Qunari._ _Vashoth_ _._

_Day Three:_

_Less thrashing. Some response to stimulus. Vitals seem solid. Two attempts so far by locals to break into the building to kill both patients. Vashoth sluggish, but can hold her own. All this work to save their lives, and will they just execute them both?_

_Doubtful. Opinion is turning. Will inform the Lady Seeker I expect the other to wake before the morn._

* * *

Mahanon slept for another two days, two days which Herah spent avoiding the Chantry in Haven like the plague and occasionally disappearing into the surrounding woods to just get a moment of peace and quiet. Not that she minded staying in the odd little house that she had been... given? She didn’t want to use the word, but everyone was calling her _Herald_ now and she had a sinking feeling. She didn’t mind staying in the house. Solas wasn’t too bad, even if she had snapped at him a couple times; he’d saved their lives twice over.

And Mahanon seemed a good sort. She didn’t want him to wake up alone. His color was looking better, under the green of his tattoos; he _was_ going to wake up soon, she knew it.

But she wasn’t made to be stuck inside, half of why she’d left in the first place, so she would venture outdoors from time to time and immediately regret all of her life choices.

They were calling her the Herald—both of them, but she was the only one awake, so right now, she was the only one to hear it. Sent by Andraste herself, they’d been, to seal the Breach in the sky.

What the _fuck_.

Shokrakar was sighing at her, somewhere. She could feel it in her bones.

The Chantry man was giving them trouble; Herah hadn’t seen shit since waking up, and she was probably being kept away from most of it, but Cassandra occasionally stopped in to tell her things. A lot of it was politics, and the Chantry apparently didn’t like that someone was claiming to have been sent by their revered Lady.

“I’m not,” Herah said. “I don't. _Cassandra_. Literally, not fucking once, have I ever said that.”

Cassandra nodded. “Yes, but the people are claiming as such, and the voice of many often has sway. Wait for Lavellan to wake, and until then, let us deal with the Chancellor.”

Any excuse to stay away from the Chantry was fine by her. Though, she did explore the catacombs underneath, what few of the tunnels she could safely crawl into, the dark and empty cells. There were odds and ends left behind by others long since past, a dropped earring, a bracelet charm, a rusted pocket knife. 

Anything she found, she tucked into her pockets, knowing that she might need to book it out of here if public opinion turned, and that she should have as many supplies as she could scavenge to make it back to the Valo-Kas.

* * *

“Thank _fuck_ , you’re awake! I was worried.”

Mahanon felt as though he’d been run over by an aravel, trampled on by the halla which pulled them. Whoever was speaking, while they sounded as though they were a great distance away, also sounded about as bad as he felt.

He struggled to open his eyes. The room around him swam into focus, slow, sharpening with each memory he managed to pull up. Holes in the sky. The explosion. The Breach, the Mark. Adaar. He recognized her voice.

He wasn't in a cell with her, which was the first surprise. This was a rather fine house, all things considered, if small. Neither of them were shackled. There was no one else present that he could see or hear. And Adaar looked... well, she didn’t look good, but neither did she seem nervous, or grim, or anything that would clue him into whether or not they were being held captive.

“Where…?”

“Haven,” she told him. “Apparently.”

The town which had stood guard over the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He nodded, slowly.

“How long?”

“You’ve been out for three days. There’s, uh. A lot of shit going down. Big shit, most of it’s beyond me, but people think since we walked out of the Fade and have control over the rifts in the sky that we’re fucking, dunno, _heaven sent_ or some bullcrap.”

He closed his eyes again and tried to hide under the covers. “Tell everyone I’m still unconscious.”

She snorted. “And leave me to deal with this on my own some more? Don’t you dare, asshole. We’re stuck in this mess together for now. Sit up, I’ll get you some water. I was fucking desperate for something to drink when I woke up.”

* * *

“—gone mad? They should be taken to Val Royeaux _immediately —_”

“You have been saying as much for the past week, Chancellor, do you have anything new to add?”

“ _I_ do not believe they are guilty.”

“The elf and the Qunari failed, Lady Seeker. The Breach is still in the sky, and for all you know they intended it that way—”

“I do not believe that!”

“That is not for _you_ to decide! Your duty is to serve the Chantry.”

“My duty is to serve the principles on which the Chantry was founded, Chancellor. As is _yours_.”

Herah really didn’t want to walk through that door. Given that Mahanon hadn’t moved, either, she would hazard a guess he also didn’t want to.

“We should probably go in,” he said.

“Probably.”

Muffled by the heavy wooden door and stone, but audible all the same, the argument continued, and they stayed put for another minute, two. A pair of aides who had walked past them several minutes ago, going to Josephine's office, walked back out and cut around them towards another room in the building, deep in conversation.

Herah sighed and knocked, loud, before entering.

“Chain them both,” said the Chantry man before she could even finish closing the door behind her. “I want them prepared for travel to the capital for trial!”

“Disregard that,” Cassandra said pointedly to the two guards at the door, “and _leave_ us.”

The guards chose to listen to her and left. Herah made a careful note of it, that the people here were more loyal to Cassandra, Leliana, Cullen, than they were to the Chantry—at least for the moment. She also knew that loyalties were sometimes quick to change.

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.”

“The Breach is still a threat! I will not ignore that.”

“...So, we’re still suspects after everything we did?” Mahanon asked. “Though... no, that tracks, really.”

He sounded particularly bitter for a moment. Then again, knowing the history between the Dalish and the Chantry, Herah couldn’t blame him.

The four others in the room continued to snipe back and forth, sometimes as though neither of them were there—Herah couldn’t help but smile, just for a moment, when Leliana accused the Chantry man of being a suspect as well.

She trusted those who led and fought with their soldiers more than she trusted those who barked orders from behind the lines; that being said, while she trusted Cassandra and Leliana to watch her back for the moment, she didn’t _trust_ them. They saved her life, and Mahanon’s, and they were keeping the two under their protection.

But they weren’t actively discouraging all this business about Heralds, and Herah was starting to think they wanted something, too.

Worse, they might actually _believe_ it.

“Providence,” Cassandra said, looking to them. “The Maker sent them to us in our darkest hour.”

“You realize I’m an elf,” Mahanon pointed out before Herah could say anything. 

Wordlessly, she just gestured to her horns.

“I have not forgotten. But regardless of who you are, and what you believe, you are exactly who we needed, _when_ we needed you.”

They _did_ believe.

That was—terrifying. She had seen what belief could drive people to, what doctrine and rule could become. The feeling settled uncomfortable beneath her skin, and stayed as the conversation continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading, and comments and kudos are much appreciated.
> 
> Fic Tumblr: @inquisitwors-story  
> My Tumblr: @floraobsidian  
> Sam's Tumblr: @thedivinewhitetail


	3. Dialogues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Heralds of Andraste learn a bit more about each other, as well as their tentative allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: none
> 
> \---
> 
> Edited for grammar and formatting 10/25/2020

“So…” Mahanon looked up at the Qunari—or, no, _Vashoth_ , she’d been very adamant about the difference—the Vashoth woman. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, and a neutral expression on her face, but like a couple folks from his clan, her neutral looked very much like she was pissed off. Still, Mahanon was getting the feeling she was just as nervous as he was. 

“Mm?” She looked down at him.

“This Herald of Andraste business is kind of ridiculous, considering, y’know.” He gestured to himself. “Dalish.”

“You worship the elven gods, then?” She didn’t _sound_ pissed. Wary, though that was fair, Mahanon understood that. And she asked about his gods in a tone lacking any doubt, just curiosity. “Is it anything like the Chantry?”

“Ha! No.”

“Good.” She turned to look back at the rest of the room, arms still folded. “That’s good. I don’t like the Chantry.”

They were so-called Heralds, standing in a place of worship in a town that had once guarded the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Andraste’s final resting place. Mahanon coughed. “...Right.”

He busied himself, tracing the lines of light in his right palm with his left hand. It hurt less than it had before; whatever Solas had done, Mahanon didn’t understand, but it had _worked_. Now, it was like an ache, in the bones and the joints, instead of a grating, stabbing pain. Where there had been skin there was green light, but not light, smooth to the touch like skin, and he was worried, if he pressed too hard, his fingers would slide through the cracks no matter how solid it felt.

“My gloves-” Adaar started, then trailed off. “...probably wouldn’t fit you, actually. But I’m sure there’s an extra pair lying around somewhere. Maybe with the quartermaster.” She coughed and rubbed the back of her neck with one hand. Her hands were broader and thicker where Mahanon’s were slim and narrow, and even with the sturdy leather gloves she wore, faint green light shimmered around her left fingers.

“I’m not really a gloves kind of person. Or a shoes person. But. Maybe fingerless gloves, to cover some of the light?”

“Yeah, being a lantern doesn’t make sneaking around any easier.”

“Mm.”

“Yep.”

They lapsed into a somewhat awkward silence. 

“...Do you think this Inquisition is going to go anywhere?” she asked.

There was a writ, from the former Divine, declaring her support for a new Inquisition. Mahanon had never even heard of the first Inquisition—and while, in theory, having someone step up outside all the politics and power struggles seemed as though it would do some good, he was wary of what that sort of power could become.

“It’s more that I’m thinking about where it’s going to wind up, after everything.”

* * *

Being a stealthy sort of person had its uses. There was no way to avoid having everyone recognize him in Haven, but he was used to going undetected until he needed to be seen. 

He spoke with Cullen, sometimes, or with Adaar, or with Solas. There was Adan, the apothecary, who was more than grateful when Mahanon stopped by with elfroot he’d picked up traipsing through the woods for some peace and quiet. Threnn, the quartermaster, who was abrasive and opinionated but got him a pair of fingerless gloves, and cloth for him to make wraps with for his feet within a few hours of him making the request. Flissa, the barkeep, and Maryden, the bard; he and Maryden spent quite a bit of time talking, one night, as Flissa kept their glasses full, talking of old tales and song and the passing-down of one’s history.

He didn’t actually drink that much; he’d learned his lesson the hard way, on that, and preferred not to think about it. But in the middle of all the shit going down, there was something uniquely comforting about sitting and talking and sharing drinks and stories.

Mahanon didn’t actually _speak_ much with Adaar. Neither of them knew each other well enough, and frankly, he preferred to sit and listen to someone else talk, or to engage in a quiet and companionable silence. But it didn’t take them long to realize, at the end of a day spent running errands in Haven or avoiding the occasional Chantry member calling them heretics and other unpleasant things, that when they were closer together, the pain of the Mark lessened.

“...I hadn’t thought about it, but... no, you’re right.” Adaar looked at her hand curiously. She, like him, was wearing gloves; she, like him, had faint swirls of green above the fabric covering her hand. “It’s been, what? Ten minutes? Instead of being in a fuckton of pain, it’s a more moderate shitton now.”

His lips quirked into a smile despite himself. “That’s one way to put it.”

They were staying in the same small cabin, too. For safety’s sake, Leliana told them. Two people to defend one another, should an intruder make it past the guards stationed outside. As for the guards, it was easier to coordinate one special rotation rather than two, for two locations. Separate rooms, separate beds. Adaar usually came and sharpened her daggers at the table before turning in for the night, while he wound up reading borrowed books by the fire. A week and a half had gone by since they had stopped the spread of the Breach; they had something of a routine settled in.

“Want to see what it does when we hang around each other the whole day?” she asked him. 

“You honor me, Herald.”

“Hey, fuck off.” But she smiled a little bit when she said it.

Solas, too, was someone he spent a lot of time in the company of. It had started with him going to say thank you; Solas had, after all, saved both his life and Adaar’s life, by all accounts walking into camp in the middle of a mage-Templar war, declaring himself an apostate, and offering his services.

That took nerve. Mahanon was very grateful for it.

It continued with a small space in the town where he wasn’t going to be stared at, and he wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t also grateful to talk with another elf, even if Solas wasn’t of the Dalish. There were few of them in Haven, and none were of the people.

Solas had stories. He understood the importance of those, and so Mahanon kept wandering back to him to talk, no matter if he seemed to hold a grudge against the People.

“The Dalish strive to remember Halamshiral,” he said, eyes closed as though half-asleep while Mahanon listened. “But Halamshiral was merely an attempt to recreate a forgotten land. Arlathan. Elvhenan, the empire, and Arlathan its shining city, a place of beauty and magic. Gone, now.”

He had many stories like that.

Still, he did look rather surprised when Mahanon brought Adaar with him one day; he and the Vashoth woman had spent a day in company, and a day apart, and determined that the Marks hurt “a fuck of a lot _less_ ,” to quote Adaar, when they were closer.

“You know about the Mark, and the Fade,” Mahanon said. “At least more than we do. We noticed something was… odd. More odd than the rest of the situation, that is.”

Solas pondered for several moments after they finished explaining. 

“You cannot close rifts by yourself, correct?” he asked. “The both of you must be present to close it. So, perhaps it is not that you each have a mark left by whatever occurred in the Fade, but that you both have the _same_ Mark.”

Adaar looked at him blankly. “You’ve already lost me.”

He made a barely-there sound of annoyance before continuing: “What I am saying, is perhaps there was only one cause of the Mark. That cause just happened to be split between the two of you, instead of only _one_ of you. Being apart causes it to hurt more, as the two halves of it are constantly straining to be put back together. Tell me, how do you feel now?”

“...Better than earlier,” Mahanon said, considering. Adaar nodded her agreement.

“Since we walked here together, it’s been better,” she added on.

Solas nodded, and without explanation or giving them a chance to protest, took their hands and placed them one on top of the other, Mark to Mark.

For the first time in what felt like forever—was, in reality, only two weeks, but those had been two _long_ weeks—the pain in his hand and arm faded almost to the point of being unnoticeable.

“Goddamn,” Adaar said.

“Yeah, that,” he agreed weakly. “That’s... wow.”

“The Mark has stopped spreading,” Solas told them both, examining their hands further, though Mahanon, who was not a tactile sort of person, not really, felt strangely reluctant to let go. “It is no longer an immediate danger to your health. You can almost certainly spend time at a distance without any ill effects—however, I would not recommend it.”

“Hope you don’t mind my company much,” Adaar said, rubbing the back of her neck.

Mahanon offered a slight smile. “You and I have some rather unique shared experiences. I value that company.”

* * *

He fell into a conversation with Cullen mostly by accident; in trying to slip through Haven unnoticed and avoid the Chantry sisters who kept trying to talk theology with him, he had cut through the training grounds, and paused to watch relatively near to where the Knight-Commander was standing.

“We’ve received a number of recruits,” he heard Cullen say, and took a moment to realize that Cullen was talking to _him_. “Locals from Haven, some pilgrims. None made quite the entrance you did.”

He was surprised into laughing. “It was an accident. Usually I’m trying _not_ to be seen.”

“Indeed.” Cullen’s lips twitched into a momentary smile. It was uneven; he had a scar that ran from just to the right of his nose and down through his top lip. “I was recruited into the Inquisition at Kirkwall, myself. I was there during the start of the mage uprising—saw, firsthand, the damage that it caused.”

Mahanon had heard of what went down in Kirkwall. His clan had been settled to the northwest, closer to Wycome than any of the other city states in the area, but not so far that they hadn’t heard any news, both of what happened in Kirkwall, and outside of it. Refugees from what had once been Clan Sabrae trickled in by twos and threes for several months.

“Cassandra wanted a solution,” Cullen was saying, and Mahanon snapped back into focus. “When she offered me a position, I left the Templars, joined her cause. Now it seems we face something far worse.”

Worse than a mage rebellion, coming from a former Templar?

Pain spiked up his arm, brief but sharp all the same. There was still a hole in the sky. Mahanon bit down on the inside of his cheek and breathed until the worst of it passed by. There were indeed worse things than a rebellion; so, essentially, things were going wrong and _fast_.

“Things aren’t looking great,” he replied dryly, well aware of the understatement. Cullen, it seemed, was as well.

“Conclave destroyed, and now the Chantry has lost control of both the mages and the Templars. Now they argue over a new Divine while the Breach remains an ever-present threat. The Inquisition could act where the Chantry could not! There’s so much we could—ah.”

Cullen took in a sharp breath, let it out. There was a slight dusting of pink across his cheeks, though that could have just been from the cold.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I doubt you came here for a lecture on things you’ve already heard.”

“I don’t mind,” Mahanon told him. Cullen shrugged, looking out at the recruits sparring on the ground, the lieutenant barking orders, correcting postures and grips and footing where necessary.

“I know what happens when order is lost and action comes too late,” he said softly. “There’s still a lot of work ahead.”

They might have spoken more, but true enough, three different runners arrived with different messages, all, it seemed, equally important, and all things Cullen needed to oversee. Mahanon nodded a goodbye, watching the other man go. His feathered cloak ruffled in the wind, all sorts of shimmering colors in the dark black, when the light hit just so—practical, but definitely attractive.

_...Oh, no, he’s hot._

* * *

“Here,” said Adaar, tapping him on the shoulder. Mahanon turned as she held out her hand, and a small leather pouch. “Jerky. Not half bad.”

“I don’t want to take your rations-”

“I don’t need to eat as much,” she interrupted, and tossed it at him. Mahanon caught it to avoid spilling the contents. “It’s a Vashoth thing.”

Sounded fake, but he didn’t actually know enough about Vashoth to dispute it. “...Thank you.”

“‘Course.” Adaar scratched at the base of one of her horns. “I’ll just, uh…”

She turned around and left, managing to slip into the milling townsfolk of Haven with a rogue’s grace, disappearing from sight. Mahanon watched her leave. Popped a piece of jerky into his mouth.

It was indeed not half bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading, and comments and kudos are much appreciated.
> 
> Fic Tumblr: @inquisitwors-story  
> My Tumblr: @floraobsidian  
> Sam's Tumblr: @thedivinewhitetail


	4. Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We spent hours upon hours in the Hinterlands playing this game, and our Heralds spent days running away from bears. While this takes place in the Hinterlands, we're not going to make you suffer through all that again.
> 
> Warnings: none.
> 
> \---
> 
> Edited for grammar and punctuation 10/26/2020

Cassandra had called them into the Chantry, and so into the Chantry they went; Mahanon walked on Adaar's right side, so that their Marked hands were closer, a habit they’d started to put together over the past week when they happened to be in one another’s company. The Seeker joined them at the doors, and as a trio they continued down the long, torchlit hall to the meeting room at the far end.

“Does it trouble you?” she asked.

Mahanon followed her gaze to their hands, and back up to meet it, and he was surprised to find genuine concern there. 

But then again, since fighting alongside them, Cassandra had been one of their staunchest supporters. Solas helped them but did not say anything one way or the other; Varric seemed more interested in the story than the outcome, the few times Mahanon had stopped by to talk to him. Cassandra, though, despite their first meeting, seemed willing and ready to throw all of her support behind them.

“...I just wish I knew what it was,” he said at last. “Or how it got here.”

“Getting used to it _being_ there, at least.” Adaar flexed her fingers.

“We will find out what it is,” Cassandra told them both, solemn and true—and again, he was taken aback by her sincerity. “What is important is that it is stable, now. That you are no longer at risk.”

“Aw, Cass, didn’t realize you cared.”

That was another thing. Adaar joked and quipped and snarked, right up until the situation called for something truly serious, and then it was as though she was a different person, focused wholly on the job at hand. She couldn’t make any sort of small talk—he’d watched her try, with Solas, and watched it fail dismally—but she had witty replies for most things. Or, as it happened, a slight bit of flirtatious banter.

Cassandra coughed and plowed ahead. “Yes, well, you’ve given us time. Both of you. Solas has determined that a second attempt may successfully close the Breach for good... provided that your Marks have more power.”

“How much power is that?” he asked.

“Theoretically? The same amount used to open the Breach in the first place, which is an unknown quantity beyond that it is _immense_. Beyond what we have here.”

He considered the ramifications of that. Adaar’s brow was furrowed in concentration.

“So,” she said, “ _theoretically_ , would giving the Mark more power mean adding more magic into it, or just having… extra? I don’t know fuck-all about any of this shit, and half of what Solas says about the Fade puts me right to sleep-”

“Only half?” Cassandra asked with a raised eyebrow.

Adaar laughed briefly. “Point is, I’m probably wrong, but if we put more magic _into_ the Mark, that seems like it would, uh. Hurt like a bitch. But if it’s something like an outside supplement…?”

“I do not have the answers,” Cassandra told them, “but the matter has to do with why you are here.”

She opened the doors ahead of them. The others, Leliana and Cullen and Josephine, were already present. That meant something big was up; Mahanon had pegged the four of them as the de facto leaders of an otherwise leaderless organization, and they only gathered at the same time like this when they needed to coordinate something important with one another.

“You’ve all met,” Cassandra said, shutting the door, “but a formal introduction: Commander Cullen, leader of our forces. Lady Josephine Montilyet, our diplomat and ambassador. And Sister Leliana, our spymaster.”

“Tactfully put,” Leliana said dryly.

Mahanon looked at them all, then briefly towards Adaar. “So, why are _we_ here?”

“Is it about the Breach?” Adaar asked.

“The Mark requires more power to seal the Breach, as best we can tell.” Leliana folded her arms across her chest, face partially shadowed by her cowl. “This means we must recruit the rebel mages for assistance.”

“And I still disagree.” Politely, but firmly, Cullen turned to face her. “The Templars could serve just as well.”

“We need _power_ , Commander,” Cassandra countered. “With enough magic poured into the Marks-”

“Might destroy us all! The Templars could suppress the Breach-”

“Pure speculation.”

Adaar bent her knees—Mahanon heard a crack as she did, though she remained unfazed—so they were at a closer height and whispered: “Why do they bring us here if they’re gonna keep arguing over shit?”

“I’m more concerned that they keep asking us for advice,” he whispered back.

“Yeah, that’s also alarming.”

“Neither group will speak to us yet, so we still have time to _discuss_.” Josephine made a point of emphasizing the last word as she cut into the argument, and the room quieted some again. Adaar straightened back up as though she hadn’t said a word before. “The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition, _you_ , specifically-” And she looked at Mahanon and Adaar. “-hindering us greatly.”

“That didn’t take long,” he said dryly.

“Are you surprised?” Adaar asked.

“Nope.”

“Shouldn’t they be arguing over who is going to become Divine?” Cullen asked, incredulous. 

“People are calling a Dalish elf and a Qunari-”

Adaar cleared her throat.

“- _Tal-Vashoth_ , my apologies. But that people are calling the two of you Heralds of Andraste… that frightens the Chantry. Their authority is at risk. They have declared the title blasphemy, and the Inquisition heretical for harboring you.”

Mahanon heard Adaar sigh—whether it was at the misnomer of Tal-Vashoth, or at the reminder that they had somehow become figureheads, he wasn’t sure. 

Still. Big mood.

“That being said, you have sway. Both of you.” Leliana spoke up again. “A Chantry cleric named Mother Giselle has requested to speak with you. She is at the Crossroads, in the Hinterlands; she is more involved with the other clerics than I, and her help in swaying the Chantry to our side could prove invaluable. That she has requested to speak to the Herald personally means you already hold some power, and having others see you will only solidify that.”

“To clarify, you’re sending us as… envoys?”

“We are sending you as you,” Leliana corrected, which didn’t really mean much of anything as far as Mahanon concerned.

 _Lord Herald_ , people called him.

What the _hell_.

* * *

They were marching off to the Hinterlands, it seemed. Herah hadn’t been in years, now, but then again, that was where much of the fighting had been going down between mages and Templars, last she’d heard. Shokrakar preferred to take them on jobs based out of western Orlais, far from the cities and the Circles. She took careful notes in her head, of everything that they went over in the meeting, and the locations pointed out on the maps, and she was ready to leave before Josephine spoke up again.

“And, before you go!” Josephine stepped forward, holding out a folded piece of parchment. “A missive for you, Herald. Er, that is, Lady Herald.”

“Adaar,” Herah sighed, although both she and Mahanon had recognized at this point that it hadn’t been making much of a difference what they asked people to call them. She took the offered letter, unfolding it. “Specifically for me?”

“Specifically for you,” Josephine agreed. “It came in with the rest of the mail, and we opened it like we would any other—my apologies, for that. Though it seems whoever wrote it anticipated that as a possibility.”

 _Specifically_ for her, then. Now intrigued, she smoothed out the paper and skimmed over the words there, blocky letters penned by a firm hand.

At the top, there were a couple short sentences: _This is for Adaar. Don’t go spying on it._ Past that, it was cyphers and code, though not an especially difficult one to crack, just one of many that the Valo-Kas used to communicate with one another. A relieved smile spread across her face.

“It’s from Shokrakar,” she said. “The leader of our company. It’s, uh…”

_Adaar,_

_I heard you were dead, and then a prisoner, and then maybe you fell out of the Fade and landed on your head and forgot who you were. Seriously, stop that. We still haven’t been paid._

_Some of our kith made it out of that giant shit hole full of demons after the explosion. The rest are dead or missing. I don’t know how many were rounded up by angry humans. If you’re not dead and you remember who you are, help me find our brothers and sisters._

_Shokrakar_

_P.S. If you forgot who you are, I’ll remind you: your name is Adaar. You’re Vashoth. You didn’t get paid for being blown up._

_P.P.S. If you are dead, disregard this message._

“She’s asking for help finding any others in our crew that might have survived the explosion at the Conclave. I don’t-” _Fuck,_ she’d been worried about them, but one thing after another... she should have looked into this before Shokrakar felt the need to write. “I haven’t heard about any of the company around, but, Sister Leliana…?”

“I can see what my scouts have heard,” Leliana nodded. “And Cullen, if you would be willing to provide troops as an escort for those we find?”

“Easily done.”

A little of the tension eased from her shoulders. “Thank you. That... that means a lot.”

“...You’ve been doing a lot for everyone else,” Josephine said after a slight pause. “Even now, you are making a considerable journey only for our request. We have the resources, more or less. This is the least we can do.”

Herah thanked her again, and pocketed the letter for safekeeping, and she and Mahanon fell into step as they left the Chantry behind them. 

“Suppose we should pack,” she said.

“Yeah,” Mahanon agreed. “Hey. I was alone at the Conclave. But you…”

She closed her eyes for a moment. Just a moment. Longer than that, and she might start crying, and she was putting off the emotions for a time when she had her own bedroom or tent to hide away in. That hadn’t happened yet.

“I’ve written down the names of everyone who was there. With luck, Leliana’s scouts can tell me who survived.”

Some of them had to have survived. There were other survivors in Haven. No, they _had_ to be alive.

He didn’t say anything, just patted her arm, and they walked back to gather their things in silence.

* * *

The journey into the Hinterlands was largely uneventful until they encountered the bears.

Less said about the bears, the better.

* * *

Varric supplied them a steady stream of narration, exaggerated stories, and commentary that wandered between witty and sarcastic for nearly the entire journey: out of the Frostbacks, through the muddied plains of Ferelden, and towards the Hinterlands and Redcliffe.

Herah didn’t have a problem with it. Kaariss liked to serenade the group with his new poems whenever they were making long journeys on foot, and it was a wonder Shokrakar hadn’t shoved him into a ditch somewhere. She could tune out words and turn it into background noise and lose herself in the march. The others didn’t seem to have as much patience; Cassandra, especially, would eventually snap at Varric, who would only _sometimes_ go quiet for a time, then start right back up again.

And in the lulls, where Mahanon had been ignoring Varric to pester Solas with questions, the other elf would inevitably start lecturing on the Fade. Cassandra didn’t care for those lectures, either.

It was a fucking long week, all said and done. And she didn’t want to say _jack shit_ about the bears.

But they made it to the outskirts of the Hinterlands, having rode along the edge of Lake Calenhad coming out of the mountains before circling around to enter further south in the plains. Inquisition forces, she’d been told, were trying to help refugees at the Crossroads, all the rural farmers and folk who’d been driven from their homes by the fighting. Mother Giselle was there.

Herah… didn’t know what she thought about the Chantry woman they were supposed to meet. She’d reserve judgment until actually meeting the woman, of course, and yet. _Chantry_. She didn’t fucking like the Chantry.

They fought rogue mages and Templars—and both parties attacked without warning; both parties refused to listen to reason. There was a mix of rage and desperation Herah could see in their fighting. She tried to make her kills quick where she could, urged surrender as, between their party of five and the scouts at their back, they whittled the numbers down.

Some surrendered. Mages, Templars, both. Not enough, there were too many that just wouldn’t put down their weapon. _F_ _uck_. Herah understood that, to a degree. Knowing freedom, and refusing to go back to how it was before. Losing one's self to that madness.

There were so many buildings burned down. Corpses, letters left behind out of some vain hope, bandits and looters.

But the Inquisition fought, and Herah fought with them. The Crossroads were secured.

“We’ve still got elfroot stocked, don’t we?” Mahanon asked the group.

“You do collect a lot of it,” Varric replied, but his tone was light. Herah spread her hands, a _what-can-you-do_ sort of gesture, and Mahanon smiled ever so slightly.

“Bring what we can spare to the refugees and the healers,” he said. “Adaar?”

“I’ve only seen one Chantry habit, seems as good a place as any in this fucking disaster to start.”

The group split; she and Mahanon walked together in the direction she’d last seen the Chantry woman, and found her again quickly enough, urging the wounded to accept healing from mages.

_Stubborn bastards. If it heals you, it heals you._

“Mother Giselle,” Mahanon said, far more polite than Herah thought she would be able to manage.

“That is I.” Slowly, the Chantry woman got to her feet, smoothing out dirt-stained robes. She was middle-aged, but she looked exhausted as well, and it added another ten years to her face; her skin was a dark brown, her hair completely hidden under the habit. “And the two of you are those they call the Heralds of Andraste.”

Herah scoffed. “Not through any choice of mine.”

“We rarely have such a say in our fate, I am afraid to say,” the Chantry woman answered. “I don’t presume to know the Maker’s intentions, for any of us, but I did not come to ask you to debate with me. Would you be willing to walk with me?”

Mahanon glanced her way; Herah shrugged, and he nodded, and the three began to walk slowly together. 

She was soft-spoken, but there was a sharpness to her gaze that Herah was wary of. But, she reluctantly admitted, it spoke to her character that the woman was staying here and helping the refugees.

“I know of the Chantry’s denouncement,” she explained, “and I am familiar with those who are behind it. Your Inquisition has the power to do great good where our Chantry is faltering; these people are frightened, looking for what they can control. So many people have been senselessly taken from us…” 

“What happened was horrible,” Mahanon said quietly, and Herah couldn’t disagree with that, either. 

“Fear makes us desperate,” the Chantry woman agreed. “But hopefully not beyond reason. If you go to them, show them who you are, convince them you are not some demon to be feared. They have only heard frightful tales of you both. Give them something else to believe.”

“They _do_ want us dead,” Herah pointed out. “A not-insignificant number want us very, very dead.”

The Chantry woman sighed, looking to her. “If I thought you were incapable, I would not have suggested it. You need not convince all of them. You need not convince any. You just need some of them to _doubt_.”

Mahanon still doing most of the talking, they convinced Giselle to return to Haven with their group, as soon as everything was secure enough for them to leave. Herah wasn’t terribly upset to see her go, was slightly more upset that they were going to need to travel alongside her for the return trip.

“You _really_ don’t like the Chantry.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“You’re glaring a little.”

“Ah.” She scratched at the base of her horn, and old habit, before realizing what she was doing and dropping her hand back to her side. “Sorry.”

* * *

There was no shortage of things the Inquisition was asked to help with when their little group was in the Hinterlands, and Herah did her best to help where she could before they were told to escort Giselle back to Haven.

All these people were just… people. Some were mages, some were former Templars. Most were farmers, herders, people who’d had a handful of silver and a one-room cabin to their name, if that. All of them were caught in the middle of something much bigger than any of them.

And like her mother told her, people were more important than anything. Forget about people as people, and that was when the problems began. 

So she helped a boy find his lost ram, and brought a missing druffalo back to its flock, and talked Mahanon into learning how to ride a horse when she realized that his insistence on walking or hitching a ride on the supply carts during their travels was because he didn’t know. She found a missing scout out in the hills, and ran halfway across the rolling fields just to bring a potion recipe back to an old man and his wife at the Crossroads. She gathered trinkets off of corpses crawling with flies in the hopes of bringing them back to loved ones. 

“There are so many people who could be gathering this for you,” Mahanon pointed out as they waded into the streams that trickled away from Lake Calenhad, cold and uncomfortably wet as they pulled spindleweed from the muck. “I understand, I mean. But. It’s not as close as a clan is supposed to be, but this Inquisition seems like it knows how to work together. If you told one of the scouts that a healer needed herbs before she could travel to the Crossroads…” 

“It’d probably get done,” Herah agreed. “Or it could get lost along the way. They could gather the wrong herbs, or not enough of a type. It would take longer. And…”

She trailed off, looking at the strange, murky green of her hand underneath the water’s rippling surface. They had closed a couple rifts earlier in the day, and her bones ached, and she wanted nothing more than to be taking a nap in the afternoon sun before the chill of night settled into her bones as well.

“...I feel like I’m doing something, you know?"

Mahanon was quiet for a while. They splashed in the water, pulling out more spindleweed and shaking the mud from the roots before putting it into pouches. 

“Yeah, I do,” he finally answered. 

* * *

The return to Haven was uneventful. Mahanon was about as enthused as Adaar was when it came to talking with Mother Giselle, but given that her attempts at small talk were even worse with her than they’d been with Solas, he was willing to take one for the team and make polite conversation from time to time.

Upon their return, he and Adaar were swooped up and asked to give reports on the status of the Crossroads, and then there were further discussions about the information Giselle had brought to them. He knew how to talk to people, sure enough, but this felt far over his head.

Adaar looked at the group one day as they gathered around the table of maps and missives, tapping two fingers on her knee. “Hey,” she said. “We’re going to Val Royeaux?”

“Once the last preparations have been made for your arrival,” Josephine nodded.

“Horse or boat.” It was a question, with the intonation of a statement, and Mahanon watched her sigh when Josephine replied:

“Boat, of course. The sooner we can have an envoy from the Inquisition arrive, the better.”

“Cool,” she said. “Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool.”

Slowly, the discussions started back up, with only a few odd looks her way; Mahanon was the only one who paid attention as she shifted sideways, leaning in close to murmur to him.

“It’s real fucking ironic,” she said, “but I get seasick the moment I’m off solid ground. So. Sorry about that.”

* * *

As it turned out, Mahanon also got seasick.

Much like with the bears of the Hinterlands, the less said about the journey into Val Royeaux, the better.


	5. Val Royeaux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Heralds of Andraste make their way to Val Royeaux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: none.
> 
> \---
> 
> Edited for grammar and formatting 10/26/2020

Their arrival in Val Royeaux went about as well as the journey did—which was to say, it went terribly, and all of them were left fuming in the aftermath. Herah bit down hard on her tongue, folded her arms across her chest, and did her damndest to present a figure too intimidating for anyone to approach as Mahanon pointedly ignored the whispers of _knife-ear_ and other, harsher terms. Cassandra was too stunned to be angry for the moment, trying to understand the Lord Seeker’s actions, and Varric had a few quips about the entire fiasco. Solas, for how little Herah could understand him, seemed like he was just trying to stay above it all, looking down his nose and remaining aloof in his silence.

The one bright spot, leaving the center of the bazaar for somewhere more secluded, was the elven woman who approached them, middle-aged, hair graying, wearing robes of the Circle of Magi almost as a point of pride. Cassandra shifted from one state of shock to another, eyebrows raised.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona,” she said slowly, like she couldn’t quite believe it.

Herah considered. No staff, but she knew mages didn’t _need_ such a thing, particularly the well-trained ones. Confident enough in her abilities, too, that she felt like she could walk openly in a space that the Lord Seeker had just been in not minutes before; she could blend in without the robes, have less to worry about, but she _was_ wearing them. 

“Leader of the mage rebellion,” Solas commented, and then voiced some of Herah's thoughts: “Isn’t it dangerous for you to be here?”

“I wanted to see the fabled Heralds with my own eyes,” she responded, and her gaze travelled to Herah, to Mahanon. “And I wanted to extend an offer, if it is help with the Breach that you seek. Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe, Heralds. Come and meet with the mages. An alliance could help us both, after all.”

“We will certainly consider,” Mahanon answered before any of them could, though Herah had been about to offer the same. “Dareth shiral, Grand Enchanter.”

“We will?” Cassandra asked as Fiona left, quick as she had arrived, her head held high.

“Yes,” he said.

“It’s nothing concrete, but that is a pretty big promise-” Varric began.

_Twip._

Herah turned. Her group continued talking, oblivious; the arrow had embedded itself in a sack of something by a merchant’s stall with hardly any noise, a target designed to muffle its impact. Tied to the shaft with a bright red ribbon was a roll of paper. 

She walked over, yanked the arrow out, and walked back to the others as she untied the ribbon.

“-only saying that it could be _useful_ ,” Mahanon finished. There was an edge to his tone she hadn’t yet heard much of. “What’ve you got?”

She scanned over the paper and the flowing script. The margins were covered in doodles of flowers that looked suspiciously phallic.

“...Another invitation for a meeting,” she said at last.

* * *

_Favors for Favors for Friends_

_People say you’re special. I want to help, and I can bring everyone._

_There’s a baddie in Val Royeaux. I hear he wants to hurt you. Have a search for the red things in the market, the docks, and ‘round the cafe, and maybe you’ll meet him first. Bring swords._

_Friends of Red Jenny_

_ <attached is a crude drawing of the marketplace, and locations loosely circled> _

* * *

Safely tucked away in the upstairs room of a far-too-fancy inn, the five of them all sat down and considered their options. 

“The Friends of Red Jenny are... well, it’s hard to say. It’s informal,” Adaar explained. “The Valo-Kas have worked with them before. The general sentiment isn’t exactly favorable towards organizations, institutions, but they’ve got a lot of reach, a lot of connections. A contact with them could be great.”

“And this Madame Vivienne could give the Inquisition some clout.” Mahanon studied the invite, stiff heavy paper, ink that shimmered faintly in the light. They were a recognizable group, easily noticed; a messenger had approached them specifically to give it before bowing away. “We shouldn’t split up. That seems... unwise.”

“Yes,” Cassandra and Varric said at the same time, then looked sharply at each other. Cassandra made a disgusted noise. 

“We could go three and two,” Solas suggested, “one group to Madame Vivienne’s salon, one to the meeting point with Red Jenny.”

“The city hasn’t exactly been welcoming to us so far,” Adaar pointed out, and Mahanon nodded slightly in agreement. There was safety in numbers. “But. I mean, three and two is a good grouping, suppose, if two went to the shindig and three to the battle.”

“Shindig,” Solas repeated flatly. Adaar looked absolutely gleeful.

“I didn’t know I needed to hear you saying that until you did. That was fucking _poetic_. Can you say it again?”

“I will not.”

“Anyhow,” Cassandra snapped. “Are we sure, then?”

Adaar looked at him, nodding. Mahanon nodded back at her slowly. They’d been able to handle being at a distance in Haven, so being at any distance in the city for a few hours shouldn’t cause problems with the Mark. 

“The group of three should go to the tip-off from Red Jenny,” he said. “The note said to bring swords, and the more we’ve got in a fight, the better.”

“I’ll go,” Herah said, “if you don’t mind going to the _shindig-_ ” 

Solas sighed.

“-since, you probably noticed, I’m shit at talking to people.”

“I had no idea,” he replied, deadpan.

“Damn, and here I thought you were perceptive.”

She grinned at him. Mahanon rolled his eyes, though he felt... oddly fond, of the banter the two of them shared. Something to think about later, perhaps.

“I will accompany you to the salon.” When Mahanon looked at her, surprised, Cassandra continued: “I have no fondness for formal events, but I know my way around them.”

“Hey, look at that, Solas, you get to avoid the-”

“I think you’re running the joke into the ground a bit.”

“Varric, I will reuse shit jokes for as long as _I_ still get amusement out of ‘em.”

* * *

The letter brought them to a secluded courtyard in one of the fancier districts of Val Royeaux. Though, all of Val Royeaux was fancy, in Herah’s eyes. Fucking rich people. But this was a _particularly_ fancy part of the city, and she was on guard as she walked through.

Fucking rich people didn’t tend to like it when mercenaries went trooping through their backyard. Never mind whatever conflict was waiting for her upon arriving. Shokrakar would never let her live it down if she got arrested.

Their path brought the group of three face to face with a nobleman, fire flickering from his fingertips and some deluded idea of his own importance, and an elven woman who slipped out of the shadows with a bow in her hands, an arrow nocked. 

“Say, what?” she called. The nobleman swung around to face her.

“What are you-”

The elf let loose her arrow; the nobleman fell to the ground, dead.

Herah considered the situation, and concluded that bafflement was probably an appropriate response. 

The elf made a face, walking over and poking at the corpse with a moccasin-covered foot. Herah could see her better in the moonlight: choppy blonde hair, tight-fighting clothes to avoid catching fabric on anything, a slightly crooked nose. Her pants were a hideous yellow plaid, not that she seemed to care.

“Squishy one,” she said brightly. “But you heard me, right? ‘Just say, what.’ Rich tits always try for more than they deserve.” Kneeling, she pulled the arrow from the man’s skull, unconcerned with the splattering of blood and gore. “Blah, blah, blah! Obey me! Arrow in my face!”

Straightening back up, she tilted her head back to see Herah better, smiling; she had wide eyes, and they went a little wider. “So, you followed the notes well enough. And you’re _well_ fit. Woof. Er. I mean, it’s all good, innit? The point is, you glow, you’re the Herald thingy, yeah? One of ‘em? Heard there’s actually two of you. One of ‘em? Dwarfy, elfy?”

The complete lack of formality over her position of so-called _Herald_ was both startling and refreshing in equal amounts. Herah felt herself smiling back. 

“Yeah, I glow. We glow, that is, both of us. Mahanon isn’t here, these are my friends, uh. Can I ask what’s going on with…?”

She gestured to the courtyard, and the dead man.

“No idea!” Sera replied. “I don’t know this idiot from manners. My people just said the Inquisition should look at him.”

“Your… friends, right?”

“Got it in one!” If possible, the elf’s grin grew wider, and a little bit more manic. “Name’s Sera. This is cover. Get round it, for the reinforcements. Don’t worry! Someone’s tipped me their equipment shed. They’ve got no breeches!”

“Oh, I know a _friend_ you’d get along just fine with,” Varric laughed, sliding a bolt into his crossbow.

She left the dark courtyard with a new ally—and a sack full of pants. Sera insisted they keep it.

Herah, who had smiled more in the past half hour than she had over the past few weeks, couldn’t even bring herself to care.

(Varric, trailing after her, sighed and muttered something to himself about rogues and elves, and very pointedly did not elaborate when Solas shot a puzzled look his way.)

* * *

_ <an invitation written in shimmering ink on stiff, heavy paper, with the crest of the noble House de Ghislain emblazoned at the top> _

_You are cordially invited to attend my salon, held at the chateau of Duke Bastien de Ghislain._

_Yours,_

_Vivienne de Fer_

_First Enchanter of Montsimmard_

_Enchanter to the Imperial Court_

* * *

_More shemlen. More parties. Drinks look fancy—no, I shouldn’t_.

It was hard to tell with all of the masks, but it seemed at least for the time being, everyone was willing to interact with him as a novelty, something to be intrigued by, rather than as something distasteful on the bottom of their elaborate heeled shoe. Mahanon would take his victories where he could find them. He had been announced at the door, so while his presence was known, it was also known that he’d been invited, which also seemed to help things. And the name _Pentaghast_ seemed to draw some attention—both a blessing and a curse, he supposed.

Though, they did announce him as _Master Lavellan_. Better than _Herald_ , far better than _knife-ear_. Lavellan was his _clan_ name, not his surname, they didn’t do surnames for the most part, but... well. Taking victories where he could get them. He just needed to remember that.

Cassandra shadowed him as he pulled up a polite smile, sidling over to a pair of nobles who had been glancing in his direction. A little bit of flattery got them talking about all sorts of things, the situation in Orlais, power struggles over the throne and a brewing civil war, and the conflicts in the Dales, near the Exalted Plains.

He’d never traveled to Orlais before this, but he knew a handful of stories, passed on through his clan, his Keeper and First. He knew the stories of the Dales.

His smile never slipped.

Soon enough, but longer than he expected in a place like this, someone took offense to his presence. Mahanon resigned himself to whatever the man had to say, waiting for a convenient pause to interject with a scathing comment and hoping that he had the opportunity to do so before Cassandra, bristling, decided to do something before him. The comment about _washed-up sisters and crazed Seekers_ didn’t help matters.

“My dear Marquis, how unkind of you to use such language in my house… to _my_ guests.”

His gaze jumped to the woman entering the room, descending the stairs with one hand raised and blue magic swirling at her fingertips, the same color as the ice now encasing the nobleman’s feet and the frost creeping across his clothes, locking him into place. Middle aged, dark skin, dressed in finery, she circled around the nobleman, pausing at Mahanon’s side.

“My lord,” she greeted with a nod. Mahanon, a touch startled, nodded back. “You’re the injured party in this whole unfortunate affair. What would you have me do with this… foolish, foolish man?”

Orlais seemed a place where public embarrassment was a worse fate than dying for one’s slights. And gods forbid that he actually strike out against the man; there would be raids on the alienage within a week.

“I think the marquis has seen the error of his ways,” he answered coolly. The woman—Madame Vivienne, he was almost certain—smiled for just a moment as though she was pleased with the response. Then it was gone, and she was glaring through her mask, tilting the nobleman’s chin up with one hand.

“By the grace of Andraste, my dear, you still have your life. _Do_ be more careful with it.”

She snapped her fingers, and the ice shattered into fine shards that skittered across the floor before dissipating entirely. Wheezing for breath, the nobleman was quick to scurry out, and Mahanon bit down on his cheek to keep from smiling. Adaar would’ve appreciated that.

“Good riddance,” Cassandra muttered. “I will keep an eye out for others before they can make such a nuisance of themselves.”

“Thanks,” he murmured back, and as Cassandra left, Madame Vivienne approached him properly.

“My apologies for that,” she greeted. “But I am glad you could attend this little gathering of mine. I’ve _so_ wanted to meet you. Though, I was under the impression there were two of you?”

“Adaar had other business in Val Royeaux, and we have limited time,” he answered smoothly. She began to walk, and he followed next to her, letting her set the pace and lead the way. Cassandra circled at the edge of the room, just within eyesight. “We were both grateful for the invitation, and I am honored to attend.”

“The honor is mine, Herald.” She smiled at him. Herah would probably call it _slimy_ if she were present, but Mahanon could see both the edge to it, and the genuine interest. “Allow me to introduce myself: I am Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchantress to the Imperial Court.”

“Mahanon, of Clan Lavellan. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He’d been talking like this at the Conclave, before... before. It had been evening then, like it was now, and the atmosphere had been tense, and... and so much of it was _empty_ , blank space, why couldn’t he remember? He could remember mingling in the crowd, smooth and honeyed words, with mages and Templars and Chantry folk—seeing the hooded figures in the shadows when he was slipping from room to room—the imposing bulk of the guards struggling to keep the peace. And after that, there was nothing. Nothing at all.

...Madame Vivienne was beginning to talk. Mahanon took a deep breath, smelling the perfume, hearing the music, grounding himself enough to properly _listen_. The Conclave was an entire nation away from him now, and well in the past, inaccessible.

“With Divine Justinia dead, the Chantry is in shambles. Only the Inquisition might restore sanity and order to our frightened people. As leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas, I feel it only right that I lend my assistance to your cause.”

She spoke quite a bit, and said even more. She was upfront with him; Mahanon appreciated that, if nothing else. Part of her offer came from genuine concern about the state of the world, and part came from wanting to have more fingers in more pots, to use a shemlen saying.

Mahanon understood that, and he understood that this conflict between mages and Templars was only going to grow worse. The Hinterlands had been bad, all the fighting in scattered groups throughout the hills, but that was to say nothing of the rest of Thedas, the Circles in chaos, countless factions and splinter groups.

He had lived in the Free Marches. He knew the stories out of Kirkwall.

Mahanon also understood that they weren’t going to fix any of the problems by throwing all their weight behind one side and hoping to crush out all the others. They had an invitation from Grand Enchanter Fiona. Having an ally in Madame Vivienne could be the beginnings of an attempt at peace, if such a thing remained possible after the Conclave explosion.

Still, he needed to ask: “So you support the reestablishment of the Circles?”

“I support efforts to reestablish order,” she replied, unfazed. “Where else can mages learn to safely master their talents? We need an institution to protect and nurture magic. Maker knows, magic will find neither on its own.”

“The Dalish people manage without Circles.”

“But you do not let your mages run amok, do you? No rules, restrictions, guidance?”

“Hardly,” he responded. “But if your Circles are supposed to be a place of guidance, a support system, why have so many felt the need to break away?”

She gave him a look—not a nasty one, especially, like he had been expecting the moment he opened his mouth in defense of the rebel mages. Mahanon had never stepped into a Circle, but he had heard stories—rumors, hearsay, yes, but firsthand accounts as well. Even if none of them was true, to be taken away for one’s own ‘safety,’ from friends and family… he couldn’t imagine such a life, or willingly supporting such a system. 

No, her expression, what he could see of it through her mask, was something closer to _appraisal_. If he wanted to continue this debate here, he had no doubt she could match him word for word. 

“You make an interesting counterpoint, my dear, but perhaps this is best continued at another time.” Her smile remained polite, but there was a spark behind it. “If I wished a game of words, I could remain in Val Royeaux. What do you say, then?”

He probably wasn’t supposed to make agreements with people as important as the Grand Enchantress without anyone else to confer with, but... well, they _had_ sent him here to talk. And no one had told him he couldn’t. 

“The Inquisition would be honored for your aid and expertise, Madame Vivienne.”

* * *

The week-long journey back to Haven took closer to two with a bad storm that caught their ship unawares, and both Mahanon and Adaar spent that extra time feeling horrifically ill. Sera seemed caught between sticking around to make fun of them and leaving because of the smell; Madame Vivienne had the sense to book her own passage. They were whisked to the war room immediately upon arrival, gave their reports, planned and discussed for hours and were told to come back the next day for more of the same.

Adaar left without a word in the direction of the tavern. Mahanon couldn’t say he blamed her, but he went in the opposite direction, towards the little wooden house on the edge of town, and slept.

* * *

In the morning they met up again, Herah slightly hungover and refusing to admit it to anyone, including herself. Mahanon simply looked tired. Cullen started by making his support of the Templars known again, to which Josephine had a quick rebuttal, and all of them had to be quieted by Leliana so that things could start off properly.

The room was quick to quiet. Leliana gestured towards Josephine, who had various points of interest written out on her clipboard. 

“We received another message for you, Herald,” Josephine began, but instead of looking towards Herah, she extended a letter to Mahanon. Herah watched as he quickly took it, skimming it over, and the tension visibly eased from his shoulders.

“Can we send a response?” he asked when he got to the end, looking up at the rest of the room.

Josephine nodded. “We have some elven scribes in our number who could approach, or... your people appreciate deeds as much as words, do they not?”

Mahanon had an odd expression for a moment, quickly smoothed over. “Yes, I could tell you how to best approach them, if you’re sure it won’t take any resources that we need away from-”

 _Your people..._ oh. They hadn’t actually sprung out of the Fade, newly-formed, atop a great steed, ready to save the world. Mahanon hadn’t spoken much of his clan, but he had to have come from somewhere.

“Hey, if that’s your folks contacting you,” Herah cut in, “then we should send word back. We answered the Valo-Kas, didn’t we?”

“...True enough.”

“Then it’s settled.” Josephine made a note on one of her (many, many) papers. “As soon as we are able we can send one of our people, as well as a letter from you, if you wish.”

“...Thank you, Josephine.”

“Of course, Herald. Now, I have been speaking with Madame Giselle, and sending the appropriate letters to those who contacted you in Val Royeaux…”

There had been no word from Redcliffe, but Leliana was sending her scouts into the town from the base at the Crossroads. There was still fighting in the area, minor skirmishes that could threaten to grow larger if the mages in town stayed for any length of time. And most of the Templars had retreated to a place called Therinfal Redoubt, with more coming in by the day as they made the journey across the Frostbacks and into Ferelden. 

“We have all made our positions on the matter clear,” Josephine said, with a rather pointed look at Cullen. “The fact of the matter is that these offers have a limited timeframe. We can contact the Grand Enchanter in Redcliffe, or we can begin to make arrangements among the Orlesian nobility to pressure the Lord Seeker into allowing a meeting.”

Herah frowned. “Why not do both?”

“Arranging an alliance takes time, and our resources are limited.” Josephine leafed through her papers until she found one in particular; Herah wasn’t entirely sure how she kept track of everything, and at this point, she was too afraid to ask. “Furthermore, in allying with one faction, we likely alienate the other.”

“But isn’t the point of this organization to restore peace?” Mahanon asked. He was frowning too. “We’ve already invited Madame Vivienne, so we have support from the loyalist mages, which _should_ give us support with some of the Templars. If we could get support from the rebel mages, that’s already two factions on our side.”

“‘Sides, if we ally with Templars and the loyalist mages, then we’re just another group trying to stamp out people who never did jack to us. No, _fuck_ , just listen.” A little too much heat bled into her tone, and she tried to reign back her temper as Cullen looked taken aback. “The Hinterlands is a fucking shitshow, but mages _and_ Templars were attacking us without provocation. How many mages are wrapped up in this now that the Circles are gone, and they don’t have anywhere else to go but out?”

She wasn’t going to stand here and be the figurehead of a group that wanted to drag mages back to where they’d be treated as less than human. Fuck it all, she’d actually up and leave. Maybe take Mahanon with her, if he’d go.

“...If we start getting support from Orlais to arrange a meeting with the Lord Seeker,” Mahanon said into the now-awkward silence, tracing his finger across the map on their table, from Haven, to Lake Calenhad, to Therinfal Redoubt, near the Brecilian Forest. “If we _start_ that, and then begin to travel to Redcliffe, we could make both. It’s a week to the town given good weather. A week past that to Therinfal Redoubt.”

“If we spoke with the mages first, and then continued on to speak with the Templars…” Herah did the travel times out in her head. “It isn’t as though they have many options. The Templars are in as many factions as the mages, and they don’t have support from the Chantry. Doesn’t make ‘em any less dangerous, mind, but they need allies as much as the mages.”

“It would be risky.” The room was looking at them both, unsure. Josephine was chewing on the end of her quill pen, and Cullen looked like he wanted to start protesting any agreement with the mages again. Leliana had her arms folded across her chest as she spoke. “It is possible in trying to do both, we will gain neither.”

“Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try,” Herah shot back.

They talked—or argued, at times—over the matter for an hour past that, then two, then three. But by the end of the meeting, an agreement had been reached: contact the nobles of Orlais to secure a meeting with Lord Seeker Lucius, and depart as preparations were being made to meet with Grand Enchanter Fiona in Redcliffe.

With luck, everything would work for the best.

...She’d been saying that since she got here. The odds weren’t terribly in her favor.

* * *

Later that evening, surrounded by scribbled-out and crumpled-up pieces of parchment, Mahanon finally had something he felt was a passable reply to his Keeper’s letter.

In truth, he hadn’t expected word from them. Hadn’t thought he could send word back to them, stretched thin as they were, and how much of this could he even put in a letter, anyway? What could he say, that the shemlen had picked them as Andraste’s chosen, when it was the followers of Andraste that forced them to wander, so much of their history lost? How to explain _that_?

But his clan, his _Keeper_ , writing as one, had made contact with the Inquisition to check that he was safe. To demand his return, if he was unsafe, kept against his will. _We have on occasion been forced to defend ourselves._ They would have come for him, if pushed. 

He didn’t really know what to do with that, least of all because he hadn’t been expecting the support. But he owed it to them to try and explain what happened, so he did. And carefully, once the ink had dried, he folded up his response and slipped it into a pocket to bring to Josephine later on. 

The letter his Keeper had sent, he placed carefully into a book, and the book into one of his bags, where it would remain safe and undamaged. 

_Clan Lavellan offers greetings to the Inquisition and wishes it well in sealing the Breach that has opened in the sky. While some Dalish clans hate humans and wish nothing to do with them, ours has always dealt fairly with all and wished only for peace. That said, we have on occasion been forced to defend ourselves from those who saw us only as potential victims._

_It has come to our attention that a member of our clan is being held captive by your Inquisition. He went to the Conclave only to observe the peace talks between your mages and templars, and we find it highly unlikely that he intentionally violated your customs. If he has been charged with a crime, we would appreciate hearing of it. If not, it would ease our concerns to hear from him to know that he remains with the Inquisition of his own will._

_We await your reply,_

_Keeper Istimaethoriel, of Clan Lavellan_


	6. Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Heralds travel to Redcliffe, meet some new people, and uncover new information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: disturbing imagery (see end notes for details)
> 
> \---
> 
> Edited for grammar and punctuation 10/27/2020

Arrangements were made. Missives were sent out. Mahanon, the evening before, began packing his bags: the elfroot poultices, the dried herbs, the extra set of knives he carried with him just-in-case, the small acorn charm he had picked up from the mud of the Hinterlands because it was small and shined when polished and had probably been important to someone, once. Adaar, on the opposite side of the cabin, did much the same. 

“We need more blood lotus,” she said to him as she pressed folded pouches into small pockets. “For tonics. I know a couple poisons it’s useful for.”

“I’ll mention it to the requisition officer when I see her,” he replied. “Do you think it’s too cold for an herb garden, up here?”

“We’re going into autumn, nothing’s growing for a while.” She paused, scratched at the base of her horns. “Course, my folks didn’t have a bunch of _other_ folks around to help with the farming and gathering and shit. Hm. Maybe bring it up to Josie before we go.”

Adaar, he’d also noticed, started dropping nicknames the longer she was around people, almost unintentionally, unthinking. She was still as wary as he was about their entire situation—but, like he was, starting to warm to the others. Her terms weren’t as joking as Varric’s were; Josephine was _Josie_ , on occasion; Cassandra had become _Cass_ , said offhand. Still. 

He wondered if that meant they really were in this for the long haul. Probably.

“Your family, they’re farmers?” he asked, wondering how far that tentative trust extended. Neither had been exactly open about their pasts... but no one had asked, either.

Adaar paused. 

“Yeah,” she said, and she didn’t seem like she was lying, but her tone closed off some. “Yeah, they... it’s a little homestead. Back end of nowhere. Enough for us and a little bit extra, keep to themselves, and no one pays enough attention to run calling for the Qun. Fuckers,” she added, like an afterthought, but vehement all the same.

“It sounds nice.”

She looked at him sharply, but no, he’d meant that, genuine, and she seemed to notice. A line of tension eased from her shoulders. 

“It is,” she said.

They continued packing.

In the morning they met at the doors to Haven’s Chantry, arriving one by one:Cassandra, for her allegiance to the Seekers; and Vivienne, for her knowledge of magic and ties to Orlais; and Varric, since Cassandra still seemed reluctant to leave him to his own devices at times. Mahanon departed a little ahead of Adaar, who needed to talk to Sera about some thing or another, and nearly made it before someone called out to him.

“Lavellan,” he heard Leliana say, and he slowed and turned as she approached, her boots crunching in the snow. 

That still wasn’t his name, that was his _clan,_ but he appreciated even hearing that over ‘Herald’ this, and ‘my lord’ that. _Lord_. How was this his life now?

“Yes?”

“On your return trip from speaking with the Grand Enchanter, I would ask a favor of you,” she began. Her tone was all business, but there was something almost... hesitant, he might dare to say, about her manner. “Several months ago, the Grey Wardens of Ferelden vanished, with only vague answers to the seneschal of Amaranthine as to their whereabouts. I sent word to contacts of mine in Orlais, and the Grey Wardens there, but they have also gone missing. I—knew the Hero of Ferelden, and those she worked with, and those she recruited, and they are not fickle in their ways, not a one of them.”

“You think this has something to do with the rebellion?” Mahanon asked, though he was reluctant to even consider the possibility. By the expression on Leliana’s face, so was she. “Or the explosion at the Conclave?”

“Ordinarily, I would not even dream that such a thing was possible. But many impossible things have happened, that I did not think were possible. The timing is odd, to me.”

He nodded, slow. “That... does seem strange.”

“The others have disregarded my suspicion, but I _cannot_ ignore it, not when it could affect so many.” _So many of who-?_ “Two days before you returned, my agents in the Hinterlands heard news of a Grey Warden by the name of Blackwall. If you have the opportunity, could you seek him out? It would put my mind at ease.”

“Of course,” Mahanon told her, though the likelihood of being able to track one man down in the entirety of the rolling fields was slim—and then, before she could turn away, his curiosity getting the better of him: “Can I ask how you knew the Hero of Ferelden? Did you meet her while you were a bard?”

For a moment, a smile crossed her face, gone again almost too quickly to notice. Soft, for just a moment. Wistful. “Hardly. No, I met her as she was traveling Ferelden, gathering allies to stop the Fifth Blight.”

“Did you... were the two of you…?”

The softness was gone in a heartbeat, replaced with a sharp gaze. Mahanon wondered where his usual tact had gone running off to.

“...We are together. Happy." Leliana's voice was soft, though the edge did not leave her gaze. "Her quests took her to lands far, far west, well away from here, and years ago, and so I know she is safe from this, whatever this might be. Thank you again, Lavellan, for seeking out this Blackwall. Even if he does not have answers, it will be good to have one of the Wardens on our side.”

She turned to go again, and Mahanon did not stop her. 

* * *

They went back to the Hinterlands. 

The bears were still there.

 _Fuck_ bears. 

* * *

Redcliffe was a small fishing village that overlooked Lake Calenhad, built into the hills and rocks and trees, modest houses, a Chantry. The docks crowded out into the lake, and across the water, the castle loomed tall and imposing.

“What was up with that rift?” Varric asked as they passed through the gates. Cassandra shook her head, unsure. Vivienne, expression curdled into one of distaste as she cleaned demonic goop from her staff with a handkerchief, took a couple moments to answer.

“Magic at work, altering time in such a way. With as many apostates here as there are, and emotions running high, and demons pouring through the rifts out of the Fade… no, it doesn’t surprise me that there might be negative effects. Not at all.”

“It closed just the same as any of the other ones.” Mahanon flexed his fingers, trying to shake out the dull pain. “That’s what’s important.”

“Damn right,” Adaar agreed. “We’ll find Fiona. Ask her, see if she can tell us anything. She’s been here longer, and there might have been more of these kind of rifts that she’s seen.”

But the scouts they met walking into the village only had more concerning news. No one had been expecting them, not even the Grand Enchantress, as it seemed. Past that, another approached them, an elven man in a style of clothing he didn’t recognize, informing them that a Magister Alexius was in charge now, but they could speak with the _former_ Grand Enchantress in the meantime.

“Tevinter,” Vivienne sneered as the elf left. “Wonderful.”

“...The mages have allied with Tevinter?” Mahanon asked, trying to clarify. “It’s only been a couple weeks. Both of us had to return from Val Royeaux, she hasn’t even _been_ here that long! Days, at most!”

The group of five exchanged grim, concerned looks. Adaar gestured to the path before them, and so they continued, through the town, past the docks, up the hills to make it to the tavern, opening the doors and stepping inside.

Grand Enchantress Fiona greeted them politely, blankly, no recognition in her gaze. She offered a slight nod and a shallow bow, folded her hands in front of her, and spoke:

“Greetings, agents of the Inquisition. What has brought you to Redcliffe?”

“That a trick question?” Adaar asked before Mahanon could answer. Fiona didn’t seem to take offense—taken aback, though. Puzzled. He cut in quickly:

“We spoke in Val Royeaux,” he told her. “We are here at your invitation.”

She regarded the five of them. He felt an odd sinking feeling in his stomach.

“You must be mistaken,” she said. “I have not been to Val Royeaux since before the Conclave.”

There were some days where life was already so goddamn weird. This was one of them. The rifts were acting oddly, and magic could do things he’d never been aware of before-

“Someone who looked exactly like you spoke to us in Val Royeaux. Four of us-” He gestured between himself and Adaar, and back to Varric and Cassandra. “-witnessed it.”

Now there was concern, very faint, and just for a moment. Fiona tilted her head in thought.

“It could be magic at work, but why would anyone…? But no, it is irrelevant. It no longer matters. The situation here has changed, Lord and Lady Herald.”

She paused, brief, and then sighed.

“The free mages have already pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium.”

Vivienne scoffed. “Fiona, my _dear_ , your dementia is showing.” Varric, next to her, whispered an oath under his breath.

“Do you not fear all of Thedas turning against you?” Cassandra demanded.

Mahanon... well, Mahanon was with them in their incredulity, their outrage, but he really wished these tentative friends of his wouldn’t antagonize the people they were trying to get information from and ally with. Adaar, at least, folded her arms across her chest and looked _supremely_ unimpressed, but she didn’t speak.

Fiona looked at them sharply, something flashing behind her gaze, but she just spoke in a soft voice, resigned. “As one indentured to a magister, I regret to say I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you. But he should be here, soon-”

The doors to the tavern opened. There were other mages inside, a few wary patrons, Redcliffe locals, and others had come and gone during their brief conversation. But a hush spread across the room, and Mahanon turned to see a man in spiked leathers and polished armor, and a man thirty-odd years his younger in a similar dress following behind.

“Agents of the Inquisition,” Fiona said quietly, “allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius.”

“My friends!” the magister exclaimed. “Forgive me for not greeting you sooner.”

 _Well,_ Mahanon thought. _Here we go._

* * *

“He’s changing the terms on her constantly,” Adaar snarled. “That’s not a contract—he’s got all the power, and she knows it.”

“What choice does she have, though?” Varric spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “If you have no allies and you get an offer of protection, well…”

“You do not ally with maleficarum!” Vivienne exclaimed. “My dears, if we continue to the Templars, we at least have a chance. This cause is lost to us.”

“Not yet.” Mahanon looked at the note in his hands. Felix had collapsed, but his eyes had been clear, bright, lucid. And Alexius, if nothing else, seemed to express genuine concern for his son; he had something of compassion in him. That meant he was capable of reason. “There’s more going on here. We’ll find a place to stay for the night, see what other information we can glean. And then, meet.”

 _Come to the Chantry. You are in danger_.

Adaar nodded her agreement. “I’ll do a bit of scouting. Varric, you’re good with negotiating, think you could barter a room or two for us?”

“Are you just asking me because I’m a dwarf?”

“Hey, I’m just an ox-woman. You think I have that much cognitive ability?”

So they split, to get information, to scout out the town. Mahanon joined Adaar in poking around, which mostly turned up elfroot, a couple promises to bring flowers to a gravestone and blood lotus to the lakes, and a brief but sobering conversation with a young mage named Connor.

But there were other things, too. Worse things.

“House is falling apart, but the locks are new.” Adaar nodded to a building on the outskirts of town. “Want to go see what’s inside?”

He smiled at her and held up his lockpicks. She kept watch as he worked, standing in front of him and the door to block him from view, and the lock clicked open without much trouble. They slipped into a dark, dark room. 

“Well, that’s fucking terrifying,” Adaar said in a deadpan, lighting up a match and looking at the skulls lining the walls. Mahanon shivered; there were stone pillars with runes engraved on them that looked strangely familiar... pillars and skulls... _oh_.

“The shards,” he whispered, recalling the devices they had found, and the strange fragments of rock and bone they had uncovered. “Tevinter is looking for the shards?”

“Looks like it.” The match burned down; she lit another one, going deeper into the house. Mahanon examined the desk and tables, but found nothing of use except for a folded up letter that had been left out almost as an afterthought.

_Alexius was quite clear in his orders. We must scour the countryside to find more of the shards. Without them, the Venatori cannot claim the treasure our master seeks. For that, we need the oculara. Without them, the shards are nearly impossible to find, even if they are no longer cloaked by whatever magic hid them for all these centuries._

“Find anything, Red?”

_There must be more Tranquil in the area —the rebels abandoned most of them when they fled their Circles. Remember, the skull will only attune properly if the Tranquil is in close proximity to one of the shards when the demon is forced to possess him. Even then, the blow must be delivered immediately. The oculara produced from Tranquil killed even minutes later failed to illuminate the shards when used. _

_I trust you to continue your efforts in this matter. Our master expects success._

“Hold this for me, would you?” he asked, holding the letter out and not waiting to see if she took it. Then he turned, left, walked round to the back of the hut, and threw up into the dirt.

“Hey. Hey…” There were hands on his shoulders, pulling him upright, Adaar keeping him steady with a surprisingly gentle grip. She looked pale—she’d read it too. Gods, he’d _touched_ those skulls, had looked through them without thinking-

“Snap out of it. Come on, we need you here right now.” She looked him in the eyes, gave his shoulders a little squeeze. “We can panic and fall apart later. God knows we both fucking deserve a breakdown at this point. Now we... now we know, at least. We know, so we can take care of it. But we’ve got shit to do, so I need you _here_. Don't fall apart on me now, Red.”

He spat on the ground, trying to get the taste of bile out of his mouth. Adaar wordlessly offered her waterskin.

“Thanks,” he rasped. “We should... we should… get to the Chantry.”

“Let’s go to the Chantry,” she agreed softly.

They locked the doors behind them. Adaar kept the letter in her pocket.

* * *

There was a rift in the Chantry. Because of _course_ there was a fucking rift in the _fucking_ Chantry. 

Herah stabbed some demons. She was getting better at that. Varric’s aim with Bianca was impeccable, as always, and Mahanon covered her on her right. Cassandra was a whirlwind with a sword. Vivienne and the unknown mage fought with fire and ice in tandem, and at the end of it, she and Mahanon raised their hands in sync to snap the rift shut.

“ _Fascinating_ ,” said the mage as silence fell. He managed to look absolutely fine, not a hair out of place or a speck of dirt on him, and she was covered in demon blood. Demon goop. Did demons bleed? Shit came out of them when she stabbed them. _F_ _uck_ , though, she hoped it wasn’t literal shit, that would be worse. “How does that work, exactly?”

She shrugged. Mahanon just blinked a couple of times. The Chantry was quiet.

The mage laughed, genuinely delighted. It made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “You don’t even know! You just wiggle your fingers, and, boom! Rift closed.”

“Hey, uh... who the fuck are you?” she asked.

She heard Vivienne sigh from somewhere behind her at her crassness. As usual, she didn’t exactly care. The mage gave her a bemused look.

“Getting ahead of myself again, I see,” he said dryly, and bowed. “Dorian of House Pavus, formerly of Minrathous. At your service.”

“Tevinters,” Vivienne muttered. “Let one in, and then they’re crawling out of the walls like cockroaches.”

Dorian gasped, pressing one hand to his chest. “Now, now. I’m far more handsome than a cockroach. Anyhow. Magister Alexius was my mentor, so my assistance should be quite valuable to you, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Confident, much?” she asked him, and he offered a bright smile.

“Justifiably so! Felix will be along shortly, I imagine. I’m glad you got his note, but he’s had some lingering illness for months, and Alexius frets like a mother hen.” He shrugged, one-shouldered. “He is an only child, after all.”

“Right. Well. Adaar, of the Valo-Kas and the Inquisition.” She gave him a nod of greeting, and then gestured at the group assembled. 

“Mahanon, Clan Lavellan,” Mahanon added, appearing next to her with his usual silent grace. She had gotten better at not startling when it happened. “Did you send the note?”

“Yes. You’re in danger, that much should be obvious, even without the note. Someone had to warn you.”

“No, shit, we’re in danger? Hadn’t realized.” The Mark throbbed. Herah ignored it. “What’s the new threat?”

Vivienne sighed again somewhere behind her, pointedly. She ignored that too. Dorian, on the other hand, seemed as delighted by the sarcasm as he did by the strange magic she and Mahanon now wielded.

“Let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the rebel mages out from underneath you. As if by magic, right? Which is _exactly_ what happened. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition did, Alexius distorted time itself.”

“Like the rifts,” she said slowly. “Like... that one, and the one outside the town, earlier today. He’s doing that?”

“Sort of.” Dorian looked at the two of them, at the rest of their group. His expression became grave. “The magic that he’s using is wildly unstable. If left unchecked, it will continue unraveling, affecting rifts further and further from Redcliffe.”

“Fucking fantastic.” She looked up at the sky, visible through the roof, the rubble on the floor, the piles of sludge that were once demons. “Got any more proof than that, though? What you’re saying makes sense, but we do need a little more than, magical time control, fucking deal with it.”

“I can help with that.” Out of breath, slipping through the front doors to the Chantry, Felix appeared, looking no worse for wear than he had earlier in the day. 

“Took you long enough!” Dorian exclaimed. “Is he getting suspicious?”

“No, but I shouldn’t have played the illness card.” Felix sighed. “I thought he’d be fussing over me all day. Listen, he’s not here for the mages, not really. I have papers of his, letters. He’s joined a cult, Tevinter supremacists, calling themselves the Venatori…”

Herah got the sinking feeling that she wasn’t going to like the rest of what either man had to say.

(Spoiler alert: she really, really didn’t.)

* * *

“What do we do?” 

Night was falling. Around them, Redcliffe was peaceful and quiet.

Mahanon ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated, thinking and only coming up with solutions he didn’t like.

“We can’t turn around and go back, we’ll miss our window for the meeting with the Lord Seeker, which means we lose any standing we have with the Templars.”

“And if we go forward, we risk losing the support of the mages to whatever the fuck is going on here.” Adaar sighed. “Never mind their support, we’d be leaving a bunch of innocents in the hands of fucking Tevinter, in the heartland of Ferelden, and that’s inexcusable. We could-"

She stopped abruptly, swallowing her words. Mahanon squinted at her.

“We could...?”

Adaar looked reluctant to speak her thoughts, and he rather selfishly hoped she would suggest the thing he was also thinking of, so he didn’t have to be the one to bring it up.

“...One of us could go back and report to Haven. And one of us could go forward to talk with the Templars. It’s a week’s travel in good weather, either way, and we don’t have time for... for...”

“For much of anything.” He pressed his hands into fists and pressed his thumbs against his lips. “Damn. We… could do that.”

“Or,” Varric suggested from by the fire. “You could do something that doesn’t involve putting you two on opposite sides of the continent.”

“I second the motion,” Cassandra said flatly. “Much as it pains me to agree.”

“Got any better ideas?” Mahanon shot back. Cassandra made a disgusted noise—but she didn’t answer. “We can’t stay in the same place forever.”

But later, Adaar sitting nearby him that night, the silence was tense.

“I’m worried about this,” she said at last. The dying light of the fire cast odd shadows across her face and the scars there. She had a knack for making herself look smaller than she really was, at times, and now was one of those times; she was nervous, Mahanon could see it in the way she held herself. “Are you?”

“Am I worried about you traveling for a week to the opposite side of the continent to talk with renegade Templars who may or may not try to stab you, while I negotiate with the rebel mages who may or may not try to explode me now that they’ve allied with Tevinter?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Nah, not worried at all.”

She huffed a short laugh and made a move as though to clap her hand on his shoulder, then thought better of it. Mahanon didn’t think he would have minded, though.

“We just... fuck, Solas _said_ he’s stopped whatever this is from killing us.” She waved one hand in the air, with the Mark trailing green in its wake. “But we still don’t know what it is, or what it was doing to us, and we don’t know how long we can be apart. And now we’re going across the continent.

“Redcliffe is a quaint little place,” Mahanon said lightly. “You’ll get to see more of Ferelden, now. More quaint little places.”

“Sure, sometimes quaint little towns are great. Sometimes those places try to run us Vashoth out of town with pitchforks, so.”

“I can relate to that, unfortunately. We’ll... we’ll keep safe. Solas can keep me alive if anything starts to go strange. And, er-”

“No, spit it out.” Adaar glanced over at him. “It’s all good.”

“...Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but if we have to keep staying in the same room all the time I _am_ going to snap.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “Fuck, do I feel that! No offense taken.”

“Okay. That’s... good. That's good.”

And so come the morning, Mahanon set back for Haven with Dorian and Varric at his side, Adaar traveling further east to parlay with the Templars. His wrist and hand ached with pain, the green light trailing behind his fingers as he tried to shake them out, but the pain did not leave and he had the sinking feeling it would only grow worse in the coming days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disturbing imagery: Mahanon and Adaar find the hut in Redcliffe where the Tranquil skulls to make the oculara are kept, as well as the letters there (taken directly from the Codex entry). To skip, stop at the paragraph ending with "But-- there were other things, too. Worse things." and go to the scene after the page break (begins with "There was a rift in the Chantry. Because of /course/ there was a fucking rift in the /fucking/ Chantry").
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and comments and kudos are much appreciated.
> 
> Fic Tumblr: @inquisitwors-story  
> My Tumblr: @floraobsidian  
> Sam's Tumblr: @thedivinewhitetail


	7. Envy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaar travels to Therinfal Redoubt to speak with the Lord Seeker and secure the allegiance of the Templars.
> 
> Predictably, this doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit gets real this chapter, y'all. Also, I accidentally posted the same chapter twice one week after the next, hence this update in the middle of the week. Regularly-scheduled posting will resume again on Saturday, assuming I can still count chapters properly. :|
> 
> Warnings: gore, body horror, disturbing imagery, mind fuckery. See end notes for details.
> 
> \---
> 
> Edited for grammar and punctuation 10/27/2020

Mahanon left with Varric, Dorian, and a few of the Inquisition soldiers, en route to Haven to explain what had happened at Redcliffe and to discuss their next course of action, while Felix and Leliana’s agents remained in Redcliffe to keep an eye on everything. Herah, hoping the pain in her hand stayed at a low ache, resigned herself to another week on horseback and began travel east along the roads towards the fortress of the Templars.

Cassandra warned her of what to expect out of the Templars, based on all the information they had, though the Lord Seeker had been acting strangely, and couldn’t be relied upon to act as he should. Vivienne assured her that, with the alliances secured from Orlesian nobility, and her own considerable connections, they weren’t going to be leaving Therinfal Redoubt without _something_.

Herah was grateful that they were with her. She wasn’t built for diplomacy. She was built for thievery and sneaking and quick kills, and occasionally to look intimidating when the other Valo-Kas weren’t around and she was the largest set of muscles in the room.

“Anything else I should know? Things I definitely shouldn’t say that’d fuck things over?”

“Well, my dear,” Vivienne said, “you could always afford to be less crass.”

“I’m a mercenary, Viv.”

“Call me _Viv_ again and I shall ensure you don’t say much more of anything.”

She bit back her initial comment—the other woman probably hadn’t meant it like how she’d taken it, a reference to practices under the Qun. Or, knowing Vivienne, where every word was pointed, perhaps she had.

But they weren’t on the road to argue.

They continued walking.

* * *

“So,” Varric said. “As a Seeker, you’re the highest ranked person in the Inquisition. But you’re not in charge.”

“Leliana’s rank equals my own, insofar as our rank means anything outside the Chantry.”

“But you want to get shit done, right?”

“I declared the Inquisition, but I don’t know that I am best suited to command it. With a lack of other options, and since you seem so interested, perhaps you would like to?”

Herah laughed as Varric immediately backtracked. “Oh, _no_ , you don’t, leave me out of that…”

* * *

“So that’s Therinfal Redoubt.” Herah let out a long, slow exhale, looking at the fortress before them. It reminded her a little of Redcliffe Castle, on its high hill. “Wouldn’t want to try and attack that.”

“It would be… ill-advised,” Cassandra agreed. The small group of four proceeded down from the hills, across a stone bridge that spanned a moat and connected to the sheer walls of the fortress; Herah chewed at her lower lip and resolutely kept her hands at her sides. She was in armor, but different to what she would normally wear, newer and cleaner and _nicer-looking_. Present a unified front, Josephine said. You are one of the Heralds, you must look the part. 

_Fucking hell, what am I doing here?_

“Herald!” A voice interrupted her thoughts, and as always it took another moment for her to recognize that when someone called for the Herald, they meant her or Mahanon. “Allow me to introduce myself: Lord Esmeral Abernache. _Honored_ to participate.”

He sounded slimy. Herah didn’t like _slimy_. 

But she tried for a smile that she hoped didn’t look too much like a grimace. At the very least, the noble didn’t seem to cringe behind his mask at the sight.

“It is not unlike the second dispersal of the reclaimed Dales, is it not?”

...She was here to negotiate, or some shit. Not start fights with a noble because Mahanon would have punched the man if he’d been here. But Lord Abernache didn’t even pause, or seem to notice her expression, because he turned to Vivienne standing behind her with a grand gesture.

“Madame Vivienne! How good to see you. We met at last summer’s ball, the Duke introduced us!”

“Indeed.” All gracious smiles and graceful gestures—which was to say, all the things Herah really wasn’t—Vivienne curtsied slightly as she walked past. “I couldn’t _possibly_ forget the occasion.”

“The Lord Seeker is willing to hear our petition about closing the Breach, a credit to our alliance with the Inquisition. Care to mark the moment? Ten Orlesian Houses walk beside you!”

That was probably impressive—shit, _no,_ what would Josephine say?

“The Inquisition is honored by this alliance, Lord Abernache,” she said. Her voice didn’t sound too forced, did it? “We can’t let the Breach endanger us like this; we must set aside our differences for the world’s sake, if nothing else.”

“Ghastly looking thing,” Lord Abernache shuddered, glancing up to the sky, like the unpleasant view was the problem at hand. “The Lord Seeker can’t think we’re ignoring it, can we?”

He fell into step alongside her, and she made an effort to keep her strides shorter—but what if he thought that was patronizing? But if she walked _faster_ than him, he’d probably think that was rude. Why did she have to worry about how quickly she was walking? How was this her life, again?

“Speaking of, how did you get their attention? Rumor will divulge, if you will not.”

“What do you mean?” Herah asked him. 

“The Lord Seeker will meet with none of us until he greets the Inquisition in person. Quite the surprise, after your spat in Val Royeaux.”

That was a surprise to her, but, no, she probably wasn’t supposed to admit that things surprised her. 

“The Inquisition only asks that the Lord Seeker join us in closing the Breach,” she said. 

“Then it’s all been arranged by your ambassador, I suppose. Let the diplomats work their magic, if you trust them! Between you and me-” And he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “-the Chantry never took advantage of the Templars. Wiser heads should steer them.”

Power over others... she knew what power over others could do. She knew what the Qun did, and of everything she’d heard out of the Chantry-

-she wasn’t here to pick fights.

They crossed the bridge, to Therinfal proper. Cassandra made an upset noise in the back of her throat.

“The Templars abandoned the White Spire to come _here_ ,” she scoffed. “It looks like they’ve sent someone to greet us.”

“Present well, my dears.” Vivienne smiled pleasantly, but it was all ice. “Everyone here is a little tense for my liking.”

They kept walking. There were nobles milling, fancy Orlesian clothes and elaborate masks. And at the gates before them stood a young man in Templar armor, dark skin, a shaved head. 

“May I present Knight-Templar Ser Delrin Barris, second son of Bann Jevrin Barris of Ferelden.” Another Orlesian spoke before any of them could; was it not enough to just give names, shake hands, and get down to business?

“Ser Barris, may I be so honored as to present Lord Esmeral Abernache-”

“I’m the one who sent word to Commander Rutheford,” Barris interrupted, and Herah decided she liked him a little better than anyone else here so far. “He said the Inquisition works to close the Breach in the Veil. He said he would send the Heralds, but I didn’t expect you’d bring such lofty company.”

“Barris,” Abernache said. He still sounded slimy. Herah breathed deep through her nose and thought about pleasant things. Clean leather. Marching on a spring afternoon. The little homestead. “Moderate holdings, your family. And the second son-?”

Oh, more posturing. Fucking hell.

She coughed pointedly. Barris startled, and to his credit, looked a touch embarrassed. 

“This… promise of status has garnered interest from the Lord Seeker,” he told them. “Beyond sense. The sky burns with magic, but he ignores all calls to action until your friends arrive.”

“Cassandra?” Herah asked. “That sound right?”

“If, in an emergency, there are no other resources… this is like preparing for a siege.” Cassandra stared up at the walls before her. “But his goal should be restoring order, not hiding away. He _has_ resources. He should use them.”

“He has taken command,” Barris said. “Permanently.”

“If he feels there is a holy mandate…”

Herah made a face before she could stop herself. _Holy mandates_. That sounded too much like—like a lot of things she cared not to think about. And entirely subjective. Who could say what was holy and what wasn’t, when anyone who they could ask was long gone? It was up to interpretation, and those in charge were the ones who got to interpret.

That was when you got things like the Exalted Marches. That was when you got the Qun trying to spread its doctrine into the south.

She shivered, though she wasn’t feeling especially cold.

“That is what the Lord Seeker claims, and our commanders parrot him.” Barris sighed, an undercurrent of worry in his voice as he continued to speak. He looked at Herah without fear. “The Lord Seeker’s actions make no sense. He promised to restore the Order’s honor, then marched us here to wait? Templars should know their duty, _even_ when held from it.”

“A Templar who remembers his responsibilities?” Vivienne murmured. “I am reassured.”

“Win over the Lord Seeker,” Barris said—urged, begged? “Every able-bodied Knight will help the Inquisition close the Breach.”

“And if we cannot?” Herah asked him. “Will you come with us anyway? _Will_ you know your duty, even if you are held from it?”

Barris met her gaze squarely, and she knew she wasn’t going to like his answer.

“We cannot abandoned our orders, not when the few survivors still stand with the Lord Seeker. We have been asked to accept much, after that shameful display in Val Royeaux. Our truth changes on the hour.”

Her opinion of the man dropped. No different than any other.

When orders were wrong, when _rules_ were wrong, you left them behind. Tore them down if you could, and built new things from the rubble. 

_Rip the stitches from your lips and say you are a person. Say it with me, little flame-thrower. I am a person, because I was born a person_.

She swallowed down her anger and walked with Barris. Vivienne and Cassandra walked on either side of her. 

Going by their expressions, they seemed equally unimpressed with such a refusal to act.

“The Lord Seeker has a... request, if you will, before you meet him,” Barris said as they moved. The walls of Therinfal Redoubt closed in around them, tall and imposing. There were flags hanging proud before her, banners draped across the walls. 

“Fancy titles aside, I don’t command the Inquisition, not even close,” she snapped out. No more requests, no rituals to perform. She was here for a reason; it was time to get to it, no matter how much Vivienne sighed at her tactlessness. “The Lord Seeker asked to meet with me, right? I’m not letting him delay any more. Take us to him, Barris.”

He coughed, and nodded, and lead them walking a little bit faster.

They moved into the fortress, down some flights of stairs, up other flights of stairs, Barris explaining where they were going and who would be meeting with them. But the room, when they arrived, while filled with several Templars and nobles, did not contain the Lord Seeker.

Herah folded her arms across her chest, impatient.

When the doors opened, too—it was not the Lord Seeker, but a man in a Templar officer’s uniform. Knight-Captain Denam, Abernache called him. 

“So this is the Herald of change?” he asked, looking at those assembled. “You are why everything must be moved ahead.”

No, that wasn’t right. That wasn’t... that wasn’t _right_ , something was wrong, she could feel it crawling under her skin. What must be moved ahead? What didn’t they know? What hadn’t she seen?

Cassandra’s hand drifted to her sword, and Vivienne made a point of leaning on her mage’s staff. 

“Ser Barris,” Herah said carefully, never breaking her gaze from the Knight-Captain’s face, the peculiar blankness to his eyes. “Am I right in assuming the Knight-Captain has seen better days?”

“I _tried_ to make us ready,” Denam sighed. “I thought I knew the way.”

“Knight-Captain,” Barris said, “I _must_ know what is-”

“You were supposed to be changed!” With a roar, Denam drew his sword, and Herah unsheathed her daggers in a quick, fluid motion. “Now we must purge the questioning Knights!”

Where the room had been tense before, the tension doubled, hands reaching for weapons on both sides, though no one quite knew why there were sides to begin with. In the back of her mind, a bell tolled, _wrong, wrong, wrong_.

“The Elder One is coming. No one will leave Therinfal who is not stained red!”

All hell broke loose. And it didn’t go back to normal for a very long time after.

* * *

_Knight-Captain Sigric:_

_I gave clear instructions. The Knights are restricted to the lower barracks while the officers plan our next action. I will not tolerate fraternization. The Order’s pride has suffered too many injuries. Therinfal Redoubt is where we will regain our purpose._

_Send the offenders to me for punishment and extend training exercises by an hour. We must strengthen the Knights for what’s to come._

_Lord Seeker Lucius Corin_

* * *

_ <blood-spattered, found in a room containing the long-dead corpse of the Knight-Vigilant> _

_Knight-Vigilant Trentwatch:_

_It is good to hear you escaped the Conclave alive. Come to Therinfal Redoubt. Send a bird when you’re half a day away. Knight-Captain Denam will meet you._

_Come at night. Ensure no one sees you. I will meet you in Denam’s office. Things are happening in the Order. We must discuss them privately before you return to your duties._

_Lord Seeker Lucius Corin_

* * *

The Lord Seeker stood with his back to them as Herah approached, her knives in hand, ready to fight if need be, to demand answers. Behind them, Templars clashed against Templars, the sound of steel and screams ringing through the air. Her boots thudded against the cobblestone, and he had to have heard her. He turned too quickly; she barely even saw him move.

Then he had his fingers hooked in the straps of her armor, dragging her with a strength beyond a man of his size, layers to his voice and a strange green glint in his eyes as he spoke: _at last_.

And she blinked, and she was somewhere else.

* * *

Shifting, changing—fog, haze, like a dream. Was it a dream?

It felt too real to be a dream. And yet.

Herah walked, and it might have been for only a few paces and it might have been for hours. The burning, petrified corpses she had seen in the ruins of the temple stared at her from the shadows with empty eye sockets. There was grass underfoot, like where she had grown up. Pillars, stone, like the ones underneath Haven’s Chantry. 

Cullen and Josephine were there, standing, just standing. Not moving. Were they breathing?

Leliana, smiling. That was wrong. It wasn’t—shouldn’t—she had seen Leliana smile before, rare though it was. Leliana spoke, but not with Leliana’s voice.

_Is this shape useful? Will it let me know you?_

_Everything tells me about you. So will this._

Cullen was limp, held in Leliana’s arms. She cut his throat. Herah screamed.

“Stop these lies, demon!”

 _Stop these lies, demon!_ Her own voice echoed back at her from the darkness. Josephine held Leliana’s knife in her fingers. Josephine was laughing.

_Being you will be so much more interesting than being the Lord Seeker._

It was dark, and strange, and cold. Herah was alone.

* * *

_I am not your toy_. Cullen stood, blank-eyed, red down the front of his armor. _I am Envy, and I will know you._

 _Tell me what you think._

Cullen, bloody, held the knife, and stabbed it through a shadow. The shadow looked like Herah. It had her eyes, glowing green.

_Tell me what you feel._

The knife was in her hands, and her shadow was bleeding. Herah threw it to the side.

_Tell me what you see._

She saw nightmares in the swirling fog, the strange shapes in made for the briefest of moments before changing again, and she ran.

Cassandra. Herah’s shadow, in chains, on the ground with Inquisition guards at the ready, and Cassandra pacing before her. The words rang back to her— _tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now —_but they were furious. Cassandra was furious. Hated her, hated what she’d done.

Shapes in the fog. The Chantry. The grass underfoot.

_The Inquisition’s strength rivals any kingdom in Thedas._

_Our reach begins to match my ambition, but we will strive for more._

“That’s my body,” Herah snarled, and the shadow looked at her with soulless, glowing, green. “What are you doing?”

_Is that a hint of fear? Interesting…_

She ran, and she ran, and she ran.

* * *

_Do you see how glorious my Inquisition will be after you die at the hands of the Elder One?_

_You’re hurting, helpless, hasty. What happens to the hammer when there are no more nails?_

_What are you? Get out! This is_ **_my_ ** _place!_

* * *

There was a bedroom. It was wrong. The walls were wrong, the ceiling. The bed was on the ceiling. But it felt more real than anything else. Herah stepped inside, and inside she could recognize that the veilfire breath of the statues outside flowed like water, like nothing of the real world could. 

Her hands were bloodless, clean. Her shadow was just a shadow. She sucked in gasps of air and tried to bring herself back to calm.

Where had she been before this? What wasn’t she getting?

 _Wait,_ whispered a voice as she tried to go. In the peripheral of her vision, she could see a large-brimmed hat. Too-wide blue eyes.

_Envy is hurting you. Mirrors on mirrors on memories. A face it can feel, but not fake. I want to help! You, not Envy._

“I’m through with your lies, Envy,” she spat. She had her knives, but what good could that do her when she was trapped somewhere inside her own head?

_I’m not a lie! I’m Cole. We’re inside you. Well, I am. You’re always inside you._

_It’s easy to hear, harder to be a part of what you’re hearing. But I’m here, hearing, helping. I hope._

_Envy hurt you. Is hurting you. I tried to help. Then I was here, in the hearing. It’s... it’s not usually like this._

The room was safe. Or, it felt safe, unlike anywhere else. Her mind felt disconnected from her body—her body, from her mind?

“If you can explain this, I’m listening.”

There was a boy on the ceiling. He was standing on the bed. He had a large hat that covered his eyes, like gravity was curving upwards instead of down. There was water everywhere, pouring from the walls.

_I was watching. I watch. Every Templar knew when you arrived. They were impressed, but not the Lord Seeker._

“That’s... that’s Envy? It wants to be... to be me.”

Her father had warned her of demons. Had told her what the Qun did to mages, and it was horrifying, but so was what demons could do.

 _It twisted the commanders. Forced their fury, their fight. They’re red inside_. 

Red like lyrium, like the lyrium at the Temple.

_You’re frozen. Envy is trying to take your face._

It had her face, her shadow, and green, green eyes. 

_I heard it and reached out, and then in, and then I was here._

“Frozen, what do you mean, frozen?” She was moving, waking. But her body felt so distant.

_Thoughts are fast. We’re here. Outside, a blade is still falling, hanging in the air like a sunset._

“But. If no time is passing, does that mean I’m safe?”

_No._

The boy was sitting on the bed. The bed was on the floor. There was water pooling everywhere, puddling around her boots, rising up past her ankles, but her feet stayed dry. 

_It would be good if you got out._

* * *

_A whisper, followed out of dream. A beckoning thread of power. At the end of it a figure, crowned in imperial red, seen through a tear in the air. The Elder One, demanding servitude with an offer impossible to resist._

_Leader of the Seekers, Commander of Knights. Lord Seeker Lucius Corin, Master of Templars._

* * *

If she kept moving, she could get out. That’s what the boy had said to her. He stood on the floor in front of the fireplace, where there’d been no fire before, only water. There was water pouring from the walls. Herah thought of rushing streams and fountains and the brook near her parents’ homestead, and the veilfire turned to burbling liquid. She walked through it, and it did not hurt her.

If she kept moving, she could get out.

The fog clung to the walls. There were the cells underneath Haven, and the war table in the center. Cassandra was there. The Chantry man. Her shadow, still, unmoving, eyes glowing green.

_Betrayed allies will curse your name. Like the first Inquisition, you will bring blood, and ruin, and fear!_

_Or you won’t. You don’t have to. None of this is real, unless you let it be._

Her shadow had a blade through its chest. There was blood on all the maps.

The fog clung to the walls. There were the cells underneath Haven, and a long, narrow corridor. Her shadow stood before a woman in Chantry garb, shackled, guards on either side. 

_How do you plead, heretic?_

_I demand justice!_

_Have it. Take her to the gallows._

“No one will think you’re me, demon!” Mahanon wouldn’t think this was her—Mahanon knew her better than anyone else did in the town. And the Valo-Kas wouldn’t... if they thought she was possessed, Shokrakar _knew_ the dangers. Shokrakar would strike her down.

There was laughter ringing in her ears, but her shadow didn’t seem to have a mouth.

_Do your friends know you so well? Not as well as I’ll know you._

There were voices in the cells. Familiar voices. Giselle. Josephine. Cullen. Leliana.

_Where is the Herald? Let that tyrant try me to my face._

There were chains. Skeletons, hanging from the ceiling by their feet, ankles bound together, grinning sightless skulls. Some of them had horns.

Mahanon wasn’t here. She hadn’t seen him. Envy made no mention of him. Too many people, and Envy stretched, that was what the boy told her. He stood next to a veilfire torch and told her to light the braziers, and she ran through walls and into new rooms that seemed to warp and shift with her movement. The wall was solid, but she walked forward, and the wall moved with her.

_Three days without food. One without water. I wish the Herald would tell me what she wants me to confess._

There were tree roots as thick around as her torso breaking up through earthen floors, though all around were stone pillars and walls. Vines, leaves. Fog, clinging to the walls. 

_Val Royeaux is burning! The Herald marches here, next, with even more demons._

“I would never-!”

_But you would. And you will._

There were stairs. People. A forest, and green bubbling out of the ground like water, except it moved in the same way the sky did after the sky went so, so wrong. It was hot. She could feel it. Demons and soldiers all around her, but none of them noticed her or cared, and her shadow was gone, so they did not flee.

_You wish to be difficult. Then see the legacy of the Inquisition! It’s followers, hosts to demons. Your world, ashes. Show me what you do with them._

_Or, don’t. It can’t make you, not anymore. You’re getting too strong._

* * *

_Weeks of studying, learning, imitating. The Lord Seeker reveals who he is, what he is, with every sharp-tongued reaction. Lucius Corin abandoned, hidden after taking his face, his armor, his Templars. Easy as slipping into new skin._

_The Herald of Andraste protests as the Templars leave the city. Small. Unimportant. Beneath a Lord Seeker’s notice, but for instructions from the Elder One._

* * *

There were stairs. She climbed above the forests, through the fog and the green. 

_Keep going up._

There were demons, snarling, hissing, clawing at her heels. They crawled in the shadows, but not her shadow. Her shadow was gone.

 _You’re making it harder for Envy. You can make it out. It’s angry, but that’s okay. So are you_.

She ran. There were trees where there shouldn’t be trees. This was a forest, was, wasn’t. Herah ran, and ran, and ran.

* * *

_Growing disbelief. The Herald, leading nobles, shining men and women whose power chokes a country. The Inquisition, rising larger than the Templars. Unbearable envy. What is a Lord Seeker, compared to what the Herald will become?_

_Seething, consumed with want. Dreaming, wanting, needing to wear the Herald of Andraste’s face when next meeting the Elder One._

* * *

She hadn’t seen Mahanon. Didn’t dare to mention him. Trees, and rubble, and demons and demons and demons. Her hands were shaking. She ran.

There were stairs. She ran up them, feeling as though it had taken her an instant to get there, and feeling as though every movement took forever. Perhaps it was both. The tall, proud doors of Therinfal Redoubt.

Her shadow slammed her back against them, green eyes, no mouth. It snarled.

_Unfair, unfair! That thing kept you whole! Kept you from giving me your shape!_

She kicked her feet into thin air. Her arms wouldn’t move.

“What could you gain from being me?”

_What could you gain... we’ll start again. More pain, this time. The Elder One still comes!_

Her shadow’s hand was green. Green like its eyes, like the Veil, like the Fade, like the tears across the sky. Pressed against her face, she could feel her skin blister and burn.

“It’s frightened of you,” said the boy, swinging his legs from where he sat on top of a statue. His voice sounded as though it was whispered in her ear.

Her shadow snarled again and glared back, and Herah kicked and moved and _thought_ and

* * *

It was too long and too pale and _wrong_. Herah fought down bile as she watched Envy skitter backwards through the doors, long, double-jointed legs and a spine that bent well beyond the point of snapping, two sets of arms and spindly, crooked fingers. The skin sagged off of its face and skull, no eyes, a constantly gaping mouth that let loose a high pitched scream as it shoved past the Templars inside, magic crackling around it, Fade-green.

Cassandra made a horrified sound. Barris was staring, aghast, after it.

“The Lord Seeker!” he cried.

“No,” Herah said. Her voice finally sounded normal in her own ears. She looked at Cassandra for as long as she could stomach, trying to commit the expression of shock, disbelief, to memory—an expression not-Cassandra had never once worn. “An imposter.”

“That monster ensured we weren’t prepared,” Barris spat out. On the far side of the massive chamber, past the Seeker’s throne and all the columns, the stained glass, a barrier kept them from pressing the attack. “And we still don’t know what we’re up against.”

The demons coming out of the Fade had been... little, compared to this. This was something more, something powerful.

But if anyone knew how to take down a demon, it had to be a room full of Templars, a Seeker, and a Knight-Enchanter. Herah took the nausea, the confusion, the crawling wrongwrong _wrong_ and shoved it all into a box, pushed it away for another time and another place and focused on the present.

“It’s an Envy demon, and I need to know how to kill it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is essentially the war table operation "Champions of the Just" wherein you go to recruit the Templars. If you haven't played through that option, it's essentially, go to Therinfal Redoubt -> find out the Lord Seeker was possessed by an Envy demon -> fight the corrupted Red Templars -> Envy tries to possess you -> you kill Envy, with assistance from Cole, whom you forget until he shows up again
> 
> The bulk of this chapter is written from Adaar's POV, with Envy in her head trying to take over. That's where the warnings for gore, disturbing imagery, and mind fuckery come in; skip from "And she blinked, and she was somewhere else" to the very last section to avoid.
> 
> Body horror is technically referenced instead of explicitly shown this chapter, in reference to the Templars corrupted by red lyrium and what that does to a person.


	8. In Hushed Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Envy defeated, we turn to Mahanon, sometime in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes, journal entries, and letters have all been adapted from the canon codex entries.
> 
> Warnings: body horror, see end notes for details
> 
> \---
> 
> Edited for grammar and punctuation 10/27/2020

Envy was dead. Therinfal Redoubt had been cleared. 

Herah leaned heavily against the throne at the head of the room, feeling the ache in her joints and a creeping blur around the edges of her vision. Part of her still wanted to vomit, and a larger part still wanted to curl up in the nearest corner and never leave. There was red on the floor, red lyrium shards and dark crimson slick, red on her hands, drying in the creases of her gloves, the lines in her skin. 

“Lady Herald?” One hand pressed to his side, battered, bruised, still standing, Knight-Templar Barris approached her. Herah didn’t have the energy to be upset with him. He’d fought when it counted. Envy was dead. That was enough for now. “Lady Herald, the other Knights are consolidating the red lyrium shipments to be dealt with, and caring for the dead-”

“I _do_ hope this business won’t affect our concord?”

…How in the fuck was Abernache still alive? He still sounded slimy. Herah turned, slow, and leveled him with a glare until he took two full steps back and clasped his hands before them in silence. She turned back, continued her conversation.

“The Inquisition has been destroying red lyrium deposits on the surface where we can find them. It corrupts. It _is_ corrupted.”

She was the face of the Inquisition right now. Vivienne was doing… something… healing magic, of a sort? And Cassandra, as the corrupted Templars had been taken down, had turned her skills in hitting things with a sword _very hard_ to smashing the red lyrium growing out of the walls in the darkened halls of the fortress. 

Shit.

She made herself stand up properly, leaving red handprints on the throne behind her, breathing in, breathing out. 

“You’re the ranking officer, now?” she asked him. Barris, ever the soldier even as things fell apart, nodded sharply. 

“Yes, ma’am. Myself, then the surviving lieutenants.” Abrahas, duBois, Primmer, Fletcher. She’d fought her way through bodies glowing red to get to them, and they had dispelled the barrier, and Envy was _dead_. 

“Right.” Breathing in, breathing out. “Listen. We’re not here to pick a side. We’re here to make a peace. We have allies in the loyalist mages-” She gestured across the hall to Vivienne. “-and we have others talking with the rebel mages in Redcliffe. We would welcome you all as allies. As _equals._ ”

A low mutter spread through the Templars in earshot. Herah ignored them, fixing her eyes on Barris.

“You ask a great deal,” Barris replied. “And our order is gutted by betrayal. Leaderless. We must rebuild to coordinate any kind of accord with anyone.”

She wanted to grab him by the pauldrons of his armor and shake him, tell him that sometimes one had to step away from order and simply _do —_she couldn’t keep the frustration out of her voice.

“Then join us! Help the Inquisition, who will help you, and we can build a peace outside this... this _corruption._ ” She gestured at the hall, at the sludge of Envy’s cooling corpse, at the red, red, red. 

And after what felt like far too long, Barris nodded. 

* * *

She coordinated with the Templars left standing, and the Inquisition agents who had survived, and ran back and forth until Vivienne planted her staff in front of her and nearly made her trip ass over tea kettle. 

“My _dear_ ,” she said coolly, though if Herah had been a little bit more present, she would have seen the way concern was written across the older woman’s face. “Go sit down before you fall over.”

“Got shit to do, Viv.”

The metal-capped end of the staff came down square between her horns, on the top of her head, not nearly enough to hurt her but enough to sting. Vivienne looked decidedly unimpressed with her.

“...I’ll go sit down before I fall over.”

“And either Cassandra or I will come and notify you if anything else here demands your attention.”

Herah sat.

“Twisting, turning, time trickling past. Here it’s fast, and slow, and red, but gray. Where it’s green, but red, it’s tangled. Or, it will be. Time is tricky like that.”

There was a boy sitting next to her, with a large hat covering most of his face. Herah stared at him.

“You,” she said. “You were… there. In the place. And you helped us fight Envy. And I… forgot you?”

“Most people do,” Cole replied. “You’ll forget again. I need to be fast. But your thoughts are tangled, too. I just want to help.”

“You, uh. You did.”

She had questions, like _how_ he’d made her forget, and why, and----

Herah sat. She sat until Cassandra approached her, and then she was standing, talking, listening to reports. Barris and Fletcher were both to return with her and the others back to Haven, along with duBois and most of the Templars’ remaining forces. A handful, along with any others who arrived at Therinfal in the coming days, were to hold the fortress and maintain the Inquisition’s presence in the east.

They camped in the courtyard, preparing to leave come the morning, but Herah found herself restless, tossing and turning and seeing Envy’s form in the shadows. The air was damp, as it so often was in Ferelden, and fog swirled in the moonlight. Green danced at her fingertips, flickering light. 

She pressed the heel of her hand against her face, pressure and pressure until she saw sparks behind closed eyes. Whatever that was, whatever it had been, it hadn’t been _real._ Or, it had, but not real like out here. And Envy was dead. 

_Fuck._

She could only hope that Mahanon was faring better than she had been.

* * *

The world was red and wet and crumbling.

Mahanon followed Dorian in silence, thoughts whirling; travel in time should not be possible, should not be _allowed,_ but, the Breach in the sky should be impossible, and still it remained along with the Mark he and Adaar shared. The Mark still on his hand. If Adaar wasn’t here, though, if it hurt for the two of them to be far apart, and he was somewhere _wrong_ , but the Mark was present and it wasn’t killing him like before-

“Silver for your thoughts?” Dorian asked, far too light a tone for the situation.

“How the hell are you so calm about this?” Mahanon snapped.

“I’m thinking about it academically and knowing that as soon as we get out of here, I have a bottle of Tevinter wine stashed away I was saving for a special occasion. It’s a good vintage, too.”

_Sorry. Not the time, I know. I deflect panic with jokes._

Deal with the present in the… future, as it were. Panic later, when there was time for it.

Leliana’s agents had confirmed what he, Varric, and Dorian had to report about the situation in Redcliffe. Alexius claimed to be willing to parlay with the Inquisition, asking for the Heralds, Adaar and Lavellan, to come and meet with him personally. 

A trap, clearly. So they smuggled their soldiers into Redcliffe Castle through secret tunnels, and they walked into the trap with a plan, he and Varric and Solas and Dorian, and-- and---

Panic _later_.

“We need to find the others,” he said. “There have to be survivors.”

Never mind the red lyrium growing out of the walls, shattering the stone, blocking off entire portions of corridors. Never mind that they didn’t know how far into the future they had come, or what had happened while he had been missing.

Every hallway was the same, Redcliffe Castle a twisting maze, dark and dripping and _humming_. The corrupted red glow made his skin crawl when he got too close to it, but it was everywhere, and he was always too close to it. He thought he might be able to hear the wailing of wind, the patter of rain. Chose to believe that was what he heard, for the wind could all too easily be screaming, and the drip _drip_ was only the splashing of water as he and Dorian continued on.

His feet were cold. The normalcy of the thought nearly made him laugh aloud, hysteria creeping up despite his best efforts to breathe.

“Down seems promising,” Dorian said, drawing Mahanon back to the moment. The mage was peering down a dark, damp set of stairs, fiddling with a ring of keys they had taken from a dead guard’s belt. Every key looked similar enough that Dorian theorized them to go to similar locks, which perhaps meant lockboxes, or doors, and both of those things were usually locked to protect whatever was inside. Perhaps they might find information... or Alexius, or his whereabouts.

“Given that we can’t go up,” Mahanon attempted to quip, his voice gone brittle as he gestured toward a raised drawbridge that led to a larger set of doors. “Yet.”

“Indeed.”

And Dorian walked, and Mahanon walked with him. 

* * *

_ <a guard’s journal, left discarded on a stone shelf; it appears to have been left untouched for some time> _

_Alexius keeps asking for patrols of the walls. Waste of time, if you ask me. The rebel Inquisition’s commander ground his forces to a pulp against the walls ages ago. Ferelden made three attempts to lay siege here before the last life got crushed out of them. The Warden-Commander vanished. Who’s left out there to threaten us? The mountain barbarians? But Alexius seems to expect a siege. Man’s gone completely mad._

_Better to put the men on watch inside the walls. More of those blasted rifts open every day, with the Herald. It was better when we still had the people for blood sacrifices. Unbound demons have emptied the castle, village, and surrounding countryside of everyone who’s not sleeping in their armor. Now, it’s just wild demons everywhere._

* * *

_ <a spellbinder’s journal, found in a dusty room in the royal wing of Redcliffe Castle> _

_With every failed time spell, the magister grows a bit more paranoid - or perhaps it’s not paranoia, since the Elder One really will kill him for his failures. The distinction hardly matters. After the tenth failure, he began locking himself in the great hall during his waking hours. After the twentieth, he had the foot soldiers excavate a shard doorway from out in the Forbidden Oasis and install it in the castle._

_Now his most trusted assistants can only see him if we all go at once, together, which we must do twice a day to bring him his meals, as he never leaves that room at all._

_Damn the Heralds both._

* * *

_ <notes found folded near the torture chambers in Redcliffe Castle> _

_Introduction of blight to prisoners yields no discernable pattern. Disease progresses erratically; some subjects die within hours despite all efforts, others show no symptoms at all. Subjects may harbor some natural resistance, which makes isolation and testing a priority._

_…_

_Information taken from the research of Warden-Commander Brosca has proven useful, if difficult to understand for lack of proper spelling. Unfortunate that her body could not be recovered; studies on Grey Warden bodies would prove invaluable._

_…_

_Six more subjects died. Transfusions of blood from resistant prisoners slow the rate of corruption only slightly. Healthy flesh taken from live subjects and implanted in the infected will often die even before corruption spreads to it. In cases where implantation is successful, blight corruption spreads across donor flesh faster than host flesh. Prisoner Leliana has been the most useful source of resistant blood and skin to date._

* * *

“ _Solas_!”

Mahanon ran to the bars, heedless of Dorian’s cry to _wait!_ He stopped just short of grabbing at the cell door, feeling the buzz across his skin, stomach churning at the sight in front of him. The other elf’s hair was patchy, his clothes little more than rags, and lines of glowing red cut across his skin like vallaslin perverted. The same red seemed to linger in his eyes, a glow in the air the way the Mark had when it flared out, and Solas stared at Mahanon without recognition for a moment too long.

“You’re alive,” Solas whispered at last, reaching out to curl his fingers around the bars. “We saw you die.”

“Alexius cast a spell,” Dorian explained, sidling up next to Mahanon, though he kept looking up and down the hall in expectation of guards that never came. “It displaced us in time. We… just got here, so to speak.”

“Can you reverse the process? You could return and alter the events of the past year, it may not be too late!” His voice was too-high too-fast, far different from the Solas Mahanon had come to know. This close, he could see red lyrium underneath his nails, jutting out in tiny barbs from underneath the skin. 

Mahanon dropped to his knees to start picking the locks, so he wouldn’t have to look at what Solas had become any longer. His hands fumbled with the tools; Dorian, without pausing his explanation of magical theory and time, passed him the ring of keys they’d taken from earlier.

Solas staggered out, catching himself against one of the walls.

“Is there-” Mahanon started, stopped. He hated to feel useless. “Can I do anything?”

“I am dying, but no matter.” Gaze slightly unfocused, rail-thin, all of them knew the truth of the statement. Hearing it spoken so casually was a different thing entirely. “Mahanon. If you can undo this, they can all be saved. But… You know nothing of this world. Alexius is not who you need to fear. He serves the Elder One, the Master. _Corypheus_. He reigns, unchallenged, with the Inquisition at his beck and call.”

_The Inquisition? But-_

The story just got worse. Gone for only a year, and… Ferelden, fallen. Empress Celene assassinated. An army of demons marching across Thedas, as rifts grew and spread unchecked. Mahanon wanted to reach out to steady Solas, swaying as he explained, but the red-

“Varric is here. Leliana. If we find them, your chances of success will be better.”

Dorian passed him a dagger, hilt first. “Until we can kill a mage and get a staff for you.”

“How thoughtful,” Solas rasped. 

They found Varric in a different block of cells, red jutting out from his skin, glowing underneath his tattered clothing, humming dissonant harmonies with a song only he could hear. His smile was painful to see, the hope spreading across his face, tentative, bright.

“Andraste’s sacred knickers,” he whispered, his voice rough, hoarse. “You’re alive. You... where were you? How did you escape?”

Dorian gave his explanations again as Mahanon unlocked the doors, and this time he tried to steady Varric on instinct, but the dwarf shied away from his touch.

“No, Red. Hah. _Red_ , no, red, no… er. You don’t really want to touch this stuff, is all.”

“Sorry,” Mahanon whispered.

“Don’t sweat it.” Leaning against the bars, he nodded to Dorian, to Solas. “Hey, Chuckles,” he said to the elf, and then to Dorian: “That shit’s weird. Red, you realize everything that happens to you is weird?”

The quip was weak, but so very like Varric. Mahanon coughed and fumbled for something approaching levity. “You might be right about that.”

“I’m always right. When I’m not, I lie about it. But you didn’t come back just to banter with me, did you?”

“The... the time spell.” Gods, the words still sounded strange on his tongue. “We think we can reverse it. Get back, so none of this ever happens. We just need to find Alexius, without this… Elder One? Realizing we’re here. I think... we have time, right? We’ve hardly run into anyone.” 

“Some time,” Solas said lowly, but his gaze was vacant again. He wouldn’t meet Mahanon’s eyes. “So we must continue moving.”

So they did.

Solas and Varric seemed to know the castle better than he and Dorian did, and kept them from wandering in circles too much, but even then they got distracted. Slowed down. Neither of them were fully present, never more apparent than when, in rummaging through some opened crates for any sort of weapon or potions cache, Mahanon found Bianca shoved haphazard in with two other rusting crossbows and scattered bolts.

“Varric, look!” He turned, holding out the weapon. Varric, swaying, offered a bit of a shrug.

“Pretty sure I’d just drop the bolts I tried to load,” he answered, flexing fingers encrusted in red.

“You shouldn’t be going unarmed.”

“Only one weapon for me, and they took her… Maker. It was… a long time. A long time ago.”

Solas’ gaze lingered on the crossbow before turning elsewhere; _he_ recognized it. Varric just swayed.

Mahanon closed his eyes, breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. Repeat. They could still find Leliana, and... and Adaar had to be somewhere. The Mark wasn’t hurting nearly as bad as it could have been. That meant she was still alive. She _had_ to be.

They could make it out of here.

“Well, she’s a bit banged up,” he said, forcing lightness into his tone and falling somewhere short of his intended goal. His voice sounded hollow to his own ears. “Rusting. Still, Bianca’s somewhere under all that dirt, I’m pretty sure.”

Varric took it. There was only faint recognition; he was humming aloud without realizing it. And underneath all that, fear. He had enough awareness to realize what was happening, and in its own way, that made it all the worse.

“Thanks, Red,” he said after a long silence.

Mahanon nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Down, and down, and down they went, hearing distant hums and shrieks and sounds. The screaming, though, that got louder, until the noise materialized into words, and the words were brittle and breaking but _he knew that voice-_

“You will tell us what you know!”

“I will _die_ first.”

He stabbed the overseer through the chest, blood and viscera spurting from the wound as he drew back, and the man dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. But Mahanon could not place the voice with the figure shackled in front of him, even as he worked to undo her chains and caught her before she could crumple to the floor. Her hair was limp, matted, tangled strands hanging past her shoulders, a dull reddish brown the same color as the lines that cut across her skin, and her skin was stretched gaunt across her bones, and she struggled to stand even as he held her upright.

But it was Leliana’s voice. And though he had seen the spymaster but a week ago, imploring him to seek information on the Grey Wardens, it was Leliana leaning against him, all but unrecognizable.

“You’re alive,” she rasped out.

“You’re safe now,” Mahanon told her, hearing the others hesitantly step into the room past him, looking for anything of use. Dorian had been tucking away any scraps of paper he could find in every room they came across.

“Forget _safe_.” She could barely stand, and her voice cracked and faded on some words, but the violent rage in her eyes was like a fire. “If you came back from the dead, you need to do better than _safe_. You need to end what was started.”

“Can you still shoot?” Solas asked her. He had traded the dagger for a shortbow they’d found along the way, and eventually come across a staff, but kept the bow, humming in an odd cadence and rhythm. 

She spat on the floor and walked to him, agonizingly slow, wobbling, and snatched the bow away from him, and resting the quiver across her shoulders. 

“The magister will be in his chambers," she said. "He does not leave.”

“Aren’t you curious how we got here?” Dorian asked, holding some parchment out under the flickering torchlight with a small frown.

“No,” she answered flatly. He continued like she hadn’t.

“Alexius sent us into the future. This, his victory, his Elder One, it was never meant to be! If we can get back to our present time, we can prevent this future from ever happening.”

“And mages wonder why people fear them.”

Dorian shook his head, and Mahanon could see that the conversation was spiraling into something, but the scent of blood and buzzing magic was thick in the air and he couldn’t-

“This is all pretend to you!” Leliana staggered towards him, still quick enough to rip the paper from his grasp, tossing it aside. “Some future you hope will never exist! I suffered, the whole world suffered! It was _real_.”

“I-”

“And you.” She turned to face Mahanon, who took a half-step back before he could stop himself. She stared at him with hollowed eyes that pierced into his core. “The Herald of Andraste. This is her fault. _You_ vanished, Mahanon of Clan Lavellan, and in your absence the Herald led a holy war against all who stood against her, and against the Elder One’s will.”

That-

-couldn’t be.

“Adaar doesn’t even believe in the Maker,” he protested, expecting Solas or Varric to side with him, to counter the telling of events, at least. Except. _He reigns, unchallenged, with the Inquisition at his beck and call._

But she wouldn’t.

“She came back from Therinfal Redoubt,” Varric said, low, sad. “The Templars in tow, but they were… different. Red. Alexius’ cult, the Venatori, had already allied with Corypheus, but so did the Templars in the end. She had a holy calling, she said. A mission sent from on high.”

“But-”

“It is true,” Solas said. “She is not who she thought she was.”

“She wouldn’t-”

“She did!" Leliana glared at him. Her voice cracked, from disuse, from pain. 'Do not tell me what is and is not true, when I lived it, when so many died in it.”

  
  
  


* * *

_ <a handwritten note found in the desk of Knight-Commander Cullen Rutherford> _

_With the mages lost at Redcliffe and the Templars’ loyal conscripts to the Herald, our prospects aren’t looking good. We’re holding some ground in the Hinterlands, but new rifts keep popping up, and we haven’t a way to close them. The arcanist has come up with a few solutions, temporary, nothing permanent._

_No word from any northern nations. No sign of any Wardens since Warden-Commander Brosca returned and was martyred. We stand alone, guerilla fighting in the hills and the mountains, but gaining no real traction._

_I hope my brothers will forgive me. I pray the Maker might show mercy._

_We must take ground before we are wiped out completely._

_Perhaps it is suicide, but tomorrow we march on Redcliffe._

* * *

_ <this appears to be Alexius’ journal, flipped open to the last entry before a series of empty pages> _

_Nothing works. I have tried countless times to go back before the Conclave explosion, before Felix’s caravan was attacked by darkspawn, before the Venatori first arrived in Minrathous - without success. The Breach is the wellspring that makes this magic possible, and travel outside of its timeline is impossible. The Elder One’s demand that I change the events of the Conclave can never be fulfilled._

_He may kill me for failing him, but I must protect Felix from his wrath._

* * *

There was nothing left of Felix to protect.

Outside was worse than in, the claustrophobic, damp halls and the red lyrium crawling from cracks in the stone like choking vines replaced with rifts everywhere, and the sky itself become the Breach. The five of them fought their way through demons and Venatori, navigated the twisting corridors of Redcliffe Castle past rooms smeared with blood and covered with strange sigils, and Varric gathered shards of red lyrium to place into a sealed stone door like keys. 

“Can’t hurt me any more than it has, really,” he said. 

Mahanon was covered in ichor and drying blood and wanted nothing more than to crawl out of his skin. The Mark was flickering wildly, now, worse since they’d seen the Breach without layers of stone and lyrium as a buffer... and hurting less. It only hurt less when he was near Adaar, which meant-

But the door opened, and Alexius stood before them desperate and defiant, and Leliana stared him down and begged for the world back as she slit the throat of the ghoul who had once been Felix. And then Alexius lay dead with his son, and there were five of them again.

“Give me an hour to work out the spell he used,” Dorian said, sad and soft as he stood from the magister’s crumpled form, “and I should be able to reopen the rift that brought us here.”

“An hour?” Leliana shook her head. “That’s impossible. You _must_ go now.”

“She’s right,” Mahanon said, looking down at his hand, the green trailing around it. “It isn’t flaring up like it usually does. It only does that when it’s... when it’s close to the other mark.”

“Which means the Herald is near.” Solas looked up to the ceiling, and almost on cue, the stones around them shook with impact, dust sifting down from the ceiling, small chunks falling away. A long, loud screech, like nothing he had ever heard before, echo ringing in his ears. “And the Elder One. Hm.”

“We’ll buy you time, Red,” Varric told him, so casual that Mahanon didn’t understand at first. “Head out front. Just like old times, eh, Hawke?”

“ _No_.” The word burst out with force, and Mahanon clenched his hands into fists at his sides. “No, I won’t let you commit suicide!”

“We are already dead, and everyone we knew with us!” Leliana spoke even as Varric and Solas turned to leave with solemn nods. “The only way we live, and you see it, is if this day never comes.”

“But-”

“You have as much time as I have arrows,” Leliana told him, sunken eyes in a gaunt face and her hair hanging matted and limp down to her shoulders. But despite the crooked bend of her fingers and the way she still trembled as she walked, she didn’t fumble the arrows, drawing her bow, planting herself in front of the door.

Mahanon could only stare as she walked away, and the door sealed itself shut before her.

Dorian mumbled to himself, incantations and equations and things Mahanon couldn’t even start to grasp, never mind now when he could only just breathe around the creeping shock of the last several hours. And underneath the murmuring, underneath the echoes of clashing steel and screams from behind the stone walls, what he could recognize as the Chant of Light, a handful of verses that stuck from how often the Chantry sisters preached in the snow.

“For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light…” 

“Mahanon!” Dorian waved him over. “Be ready. I’ve nearly got it, I think, and it would rather be a shame if only one of us got through before the spell ended.”

The doors blew open in a spray of stone and light and shrieking, demons crawling over the rubble, soldiers with red lyrium jutting from their bones, fused to their armor—he lurched forward, pulling his daggers, heart in his throat-

Leliana drew back her first arrow, fired. She swayed on her feet.

“The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death-”

Dorian grabbed his arm, pulling him away—Solas’ body tossed limp to the floor like a ragdoll, limbs askew, skull caved in—Varric, rusted crossbow clattering from dead hands.

“No, _no-_ "

Was that him speaking? Dorian was saying something, but he couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t make himself move, or look away.

“Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame!” Her bow was wrenched from her hands, arrows piercing easily the tattered rags she wore, but even as she was lifted from the ground, feet kicking uselessly in the air, Leliana lashed out, arrows clutched in her fists, the curled hooks of her fingers. 

“Maker, _take me to her side_.”

The last he saw before the world went green was her broken body lifted high above the stone-

-and then the throne room again, Redcliffe Castle, lit by torches and firelight, Solas and Varric with weapons at the ready and Leliana’s agents in the shadows and Alexius staring at them in horror.

It wasn’t real. Hadn’t been. (Had been.)

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Dorian quipped, as though he wasn’t covered in grime and blood just as Mahanon was, as though he hadn’t just seen a world of nightmares. 

No time had passed, it seemed, in this world, not enough for the Inquisition soldiers to have moved from their positions more than a few steps, though they surged forward now to force Alexius to his knees, and Felix knelt with him for a few whispered words, and Dorian looked at the shattered amulet in his hands before tucking it away into one of several pockets on his person.

A touch on his arm made him jump; Mahanon looked at Varric with wide eyes. The dwarf was... fine, he was fine, and Solas was fine. His eyes were lucid, and there was no red in his skin, and he was sturdy on his feet, holding Bianca with a familiar and practiced ease. 

“You all right, Red?” he asked. “You’ve got a bit of, uh. Goop?”

“There were a lot of demons,” Mahanon replied, sounding very distant to his own ears. “Perhaps we should go back to Redcliffe. Get cleaned up, and then sit down and discuss how we should move forward. The Inquisition still seeks the aid of mages and Templars both, though the circumstances are… different than we thought.”

“You are generous,” Fiona told him and curtsied low. Mahanon nodded to her and started towards the doors, the afternoon light.

Varric kept a steadying hand on his arm the entire walk back to town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning details: further descriptions of Envy, and red lyrium corruption as Mahanon is in the bad future. read with caution.
> 
> Points of clarification-- the future Mahanon is in sees the Inquisition (through Envy) allied with Corypheus, and Cullen having led a rebel faction before ultimately being defeated. Displacements in time aren't just localized, but have ripple effects; his permanent removal from the timestream and the separation of the Anchors would have given Envy just enough of an edge to succeed in taking over Adaar. This will all be theorized and discussed in-story when we get around to the aftermath, but the characters never get any concrete answers. 
> 
> I'm also slowing down the sequencing of events here. If it had carried out exactly as it did in game, we would have had the trip to the future and back, Adaar arriving with the Templar forces, and Queen Anora exiling the rebel mages in all of ten minutes, and that's just..... not feasible. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and comments and kudos are much appreciated.
> 
> Fic Tumblr: @inquisitwors-story  
> My Tumblr: @floraobsidian  
> Sam's Tumblr: @thedivinewhitetail


	9. Aftermath: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is alive, but no one gets a break just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Outsider perspectives! Uncertainty! Confusion! 
> 
> This is a shorter chapter than the others, it's been fighting me a lot, but I hope you enjoy it. Next chapter will be longer. I have nowhere to go as corona spreads, so I might as well get more writing done, yeah?
> 
> Warnings: none
> 
> \---
> 
> Edited for grammar and punctuation 10/27/2020

Returning from Therinfal Redoubt went smoothly until it didn’t, on the outskirts of the Hinterlands, late in the day. Herah went down like a sack of bricks from where she walked a short distance ahead of the party, clutching at her arm, and the Mark flared with light.

Vivienne swung off her horse and rushed to her side with more speed than anyone expected, still the picture of elegance and grace, a furrow in her brow. “My dear,” she said, with an urgency they rarely heard from her. “Herald?”

“Fucking shit-piss son of a whore-” Herah gasped, on hands and knees. Vivenne made a noise of distaste.

“Well, you can’t be too badly hurt,” she said dryly. But she still didn’t move from her place at Herah’s side. Cassandra kept a careful guard, glaring down any of the nearby Templars trying to get a closer look. “Cassandra, dear, are there any rifts?”

“I see none, and there has been no word from the forward scouts.”

“Not a rift,” Herah said. She looked dazed, her face damp with sweat, but she flailed around with her good arm until Vivienne helped her to her feet. “It’s... passed now. But something’s not right. We need to get to Redcliffe. _Now._ ”

So they rode with greater speed across the Hinterlands, until the distant shape of the windmill outside the town appeared over the crest of a hill, and Herah raised one hand to call for a halt.

“Barris,” she said. The Templar swung off his horse and approached. “I want you to keep your men here while we send a small party forward.”

“Ma’am... all due respect, ma’am, but if something is wrong, the mages might be involved, and you would need Templars to combat that threat—”

“If something was wrong with the mages,” Herah told him, “we would have word from one of our scouts. I’m not inciting a panic by marching an army of Templars into a town of mage refugees. I told you this when we left, they are to be allies in the same capacity you are.”

 _If we can wrest them away from Tevinter,_ she did not say.

Barris didn’t seem happy, but Herah didn’t take shit from most people, and she only conceded to bringing a Templar with her when Barris himself volunteered, accompanied by Vivienne and Cassandra. They set out at a brisk pace, urging their horses forward, and Herah grit her teeth against the pain echoing up her hand and arm. For a moment it had felt like-

-well. What it felt like didn’t matter. What mattered was getting to Redcliffe Village in time to keep things from going wrong.

* * *

The Gull and Lantern was a little more subdued, though underneath it all there was a thrumming tension; some of the mages would glance their way from time to time and whisper; others still hurried in and out, spreading the word, slowly packing in preparation to move out. Mahanon had spoken briefly with Fiona, had extended the Inquisition’s offer of alliance with the disclaimer that the Templars were receiving the same deal, and retreated to a back corner of the tavern where Varric now watched him with a worried gaze.

Something more had happened in the throne room than anyone was saying. Even the ‘Vint mage, for all he talked, was remarkably tight-lipped. And given that the only discussions thus far had been, _the rebel mages are willing to consider the Inquisition’s offer_ with an agreement to meet in the morning, now seemed as good a time as any to pry.

...Assuming, of course, Mahanon was willing to let him.

Varric hopped down from his chair and made his way over to Mahanon’s corner of the room, sliding easily into the seat and watching how the elf refused to meet his eyes.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked. “Or, barring that, get drunk about it? Found it helps for some.”

Mahanon shuddered, fingers drumming a rapid staccato across the beer-stained tabletop. He shifted back and forth a little in his chair. It took him two proper tries to really _look_ at Varric, who tried to look as though he wasn’t noticing anything amiss at all.

“It’s all right. Nothing to worry about, anymore.”

Yeah, and Varric was head of the Merchant’s Guild.

“Sure thing, Red. I’ll be back in a moment, just want to get myself a drink…”

Which he did want to do, so he did, and then began weaving through the crowded tavern in search of a familiar bald head. He and Chuckles seemed to get along a decent amount, and maybe the other man could get something out of Mahanon that Varric couldn’t.

He’d only just found Solas and got his attention when the tavern doors burst open with a gust of wind, a wide-eyed mage no older than fourteen following it through, out of breath like she’d been running.

“The Herald is here!” she cried. 

“So much for talking,” Solas said dryly as the room erupted into noise. “Perhaps we ought to find our own Herald?”

But Mahanon, when Varric went back to the table in the corner, was no longer there.

...Shit.

Varric scanned the tavern for the familiar head of red hair, to no avail. Solas hadn’t seen him go, and with no explanation available he began to make his way into the town center, humming under his breath.

Adaar was talking with an older woman in mage’s robes, positioned between her and the group she had arrived with—Vivienne and Cassandra, and a man in Templar armor at the rear, fingers twitching nervously towards his sword. Varric let out a low hiss through his teeth.

“Cannonball, what are you thinking?” he muttered. Solas, falling into step beside him, made a faintly disapproving noise.

“-rest of the Inquisition and Templar forces are camped further out in the Hinterlands,” Adaar was saying, hands spread, trying to mediate. “They _will not_ be entering into Redcliffe. Knight Barris is here as a show of good faith—we’re trying to foster a peace, not restart this fighting!”

“You ask much,” said the mage coolly, “bringing a Templar into our refuge.”

“If we are to truly know peace, we may see more, whether we wish to or not.” 

A third voice rang out, and the Grand Enchantress approached at a rapid pace, followed by Mahanon a short distance behind her. Varric allowed himself just a moment of relief, though the tension ratcheted up even further. 

“The Inquisition has given the free mages an offer better than any Circle or magister ever has. Allies, in our own right, under our own power.” Fiona clasped her hands in front of her, and though she was a small figure, shorter than nearly everyone present, she commanded attention in such a way that the clearing grew quiet.

“We mean you and yours, Ser Barris, no harm—if the same is said by you of us, and you will understand if we doubt you in that.”

Barris, a man somewhere in his thirties, best Varric could tell, dark skin and a shaved head and enough embellishments on his armor to indicate a higher rank than just _Knight_ , looked as jumpy as one would expect of a Templar surrounded by mages outside of a Circle. But when he spoke, his voice was clear and did not shake.

“The Inquisition has made us the same offer, and has been… quite clear that our contingents are on equal footing with one another. I am here, as the Herald said, by good faith, to negotiate the finer terms of this arrangement. We departed Therinfal Redoubt under… less than ideal circumstances.”

Fiona inclined her head, briefly, and gestured behind her towards the tavern in which they had all gathered in not too long ago, though it seemed like ages now.

“Then we should discuss such terms, if you would. Madame Vivienne, Lady Seeker, your input would be welcomed.”

Varric could recognize a power play when he saw one; he’d written a few himself, and witnessed a few more. Hawke had certainly had their moments. Fiona never demanded anything, but in a few short sentences managed to shift, at least temporarily, control of the negotiations to herself.

Barris nodded. Vivienne replied, both polite and cutting all at once, and with Fiona’s acceptance none of the gathered mages seemed as though they would attack preemptively.

Mahanon shifted with the group and, though Varric swore he never took his eyes off the man, disappeared again.

Adaar muttered a curse and rushed up to him. Varric looked her over. She wasn’t twitchy like Mahanon had been, and yet... something still seemed off.

“Is he okay?” Adaar asked him, looking at where Mahanon had left to. “He’s seemed... odd. Acting odd. What happened?”

She was twisting her hands together, over and over and over.

Varric shrugged one shoulder. “Some strange spell with Alexius. He and Dorian vanished for a moment, then were back again, in the castle. He’s been a little out of sorts since then.”

“Right. Right. Spells. Well. If you see him before I do, could you ask him to come find me? Cool. Thanks.”

And she slipped away with a speed and silence someone of her height shouldn’t be able to manage at all, before Varric even had a chance to answer her.

* * *

Scout Lace Harding was very good at her job. It was why she was sent ahead of the Inquisition’s forces, moving into a new area they knew nothing about—and they knew so little, in these days, as chaotic as the world had become.

So, she was aware of the procession close to an hour before they fully passed by the encampment a short distance from Redcliffe Village. Some of _her_ scouts had reported back: war horses, and a handful of mabari, and the Ferelden coat of arms across their shields and banners. She sent word ahead to Redcliffe, trusting in the ability of a single person on foot to make better time, and at least give the Heralds some warning, because if it was who she suspected leading this group-

“Messenger!” one of the lookouts called. Harding got to her feet, and a handful of Templars shifted so their hands were a little closer to their swords despite her hopes that they wouldn’t be the sorts to attack first, ask questions later.

Though, she couldn’t blame them. Shit had gotten weird, the past few months. And their boss had secretly been an envy demon. That was enough to make anyone jumpy.

“Are you in charge?” the messenger asked, a knight in polished armor, Ferelden’s crest and royal coat of arms emblazoned on his shield.

“Sure,” Harding answered, and was rewarded with a rather stern look.

“Queen Anora has ordered that all incursive forces in Redcliffe and her surrounding farmlands leave by sundown, lest their presence be taken as an attack against Ferelden lands and the crown.”

Harding gestured to their own banners. “The Inquisition is hoping to arbitrate-”

“The Inquisition will also answer to the Queen and the Arl when they arrive in Redcliffe. Good _day_ , serah.”

“Should I shoot him?” one of her scouts whispered as he left, and Harding wanted to take the crossbow from his hands and smack him over the head with it. 

“Get to Redcliffe,” she told him. “Tell them what you just heard, and be quick about it!”

“Yes, ser!”

She turned and began snapping out orders to the rest of the camp. The Herald had been very clear that they weren’t to approach Redcliffe en masse, not knowing even if the situation with the mages and Tevinter had been fully resolved, but that didn’t mean they should be sitting on their asses when the order came to move out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading, and comments and kudos are much appreciated.
> 
> Fic Tumblr: @inquisitwors-story  
> My Tumblr: @floraobsidian  
> Sam's Tumblr: @thedivinewhitetail


End file.
